


Faith Enough to Fall

by Ayiana



Category: Bones (TV)
Genre: Adventure, Drama, F/M, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-09-30
Updated: 2010-09-30
Packaged: 2017-10-12 08:01:57
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 9
Words: 67,518
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/122689
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ayiana/pseuds/Ayiana
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Set between seasons 5 and 6. Sometimes it's all about the journey.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> The island I've used for purposes of this story, though loosely based on those in the Maluccan Archipelago, is purely fictional.

She hadn't noticed his arrival. Her head was bent low over something on the table in front of her. He couldn't tell what she was looking at, but whatever it was, she was studying it with single-minded intensity. He hadn't forgotten her ability to focus, but seeing it again after all this time brought so many memories flooding back that he was glad she hadn't noticed him yet because it gave him time to gather his resources. He hadn't realized just how much he'd missed her until now, when the curve of her cheek and the glint of sun in her hair made his chest ache.

Without turning her head Bones picked up a small brush from the table beside her. She leaned in close, wielding it the same way he'd once seen Gordon Gordon handle a razor-sharp paring knife—with a kind of deft self-assurance that looked effortless, but probably wasn't. Flick. Pause. Blow. Flick. Pause. Blow. It was mesmerizing. _She_ was mesmerizing.

He sensed the exact moment she realized she was being watched. Her hands stilled, then lifted away from the artifact. She set the small brush back on the table. Then her head came up, her eyes surveying her surroundings with piercing intensity. When her gaze found his she broke into a brilliant smile, and he felt an answering grin spread across his own face. But hers was only a flash, replaced in an instant by confusion. Wiping her hands on her khaki cargo pants, she rose and crossed to meet him.

She didn't offer to hug him. In fact when she came to a stop nearly two feet away she seemed almost nervous. Stiff as a fresh recruit, she crossed her arms over her chest and eyed him warily.

"Booth. What are you doing here?"

"Hello to you, too." When she only continued to stare at him he shrugged, his t-shirt clinging to sweat-dampened shoulders. "It's Christmas, Bones."

"No, it's the nineteenth. And I assumed you would spend the holiday with Parker."

"Parker's gone skiing with Rebecca and Captain Fantastic, and Pops is taking one of those senior citizen bus tours with a bunch of his friends, so I thought I'd use my leave to visit you." He hesitated, not entirely sure he wanted to hear her answer to his next question. But six months in a war zone had reminded him that sometimes it was better to risk everything and lose than not to risk at all. "Aren't you glad to see me?"

"Of course I am." Unfolding her arms, she dropped her hands to the knotted tails of her blouse, fingers tangling restlessly in the thin cotton. "But I'm working, Booth."

"Alone?" Three tables away a woman murmured into a digital voice recorder, dark glasses pushed high on her head. Beyond her, a gray-haired gentleman poked at assorted bits of pottery. Otherwise the site was deserted. "Come on, Bones, it's Christmas." When she raised her eyebrows, he revised. "It's the Christmas _season_. Surely they can spare you for a few days."

"I promised I would catch up on the cataloguing over break." She waved a hand back toward the work tables. "I have three crates of remains to tag and photograph, notes to write up ..." A hint of frustration crept into her voice as she concluded, "And since Daisy's gone to Australia with some of the other scientists I don't even have an intern."

Her hair was shorter, and her skin had taken on a deep bronze tan. But she'd also lost weight. And the shadows under her eyes told him she'd been working too hard again. Bones prided herself on her independence, but she really needed a keeper.

"Two days." He tugged at the brim of his hat, trying in vain to shade his eyes against the fierce sun. "Surely you can spare that much time."

"Booth—"

"Hey, I came 6,000 miles and you can't spare a few hours to show me around?" He softened the words with a smile, aware that he was dangerously close to begging. He was enjoying sparring with her. It made him feel normal for the first time in months. "We can go for a sail, do some snorkeling ... I've always wanted to try snorkeling." He swept an arm toward the sandy beach and the ocean beyond. "How often do you get a chance to go snorkeling in December?"

"I've spent several Decembers in tropical locations, Booth. There's nothing special about it. Besides, I find scuba diving much more enjoyable than snorkeling."

"Then we'll go scuba diving."

Bones cast a dubious glance toward the ocean. She started to shake her head. Then her expression brightened. "I could show you the dig site," she said, excitement rising in her voice as she warmed to the idea. "It's a fascinating study in early hominid development under ecologically isolated conditions."

Booth swallowed a groan and scanned the assortment of folding tables underneath their canopies of sun-browned palm fronds. "I thought this was the dig site."

Shaking her head, Bones gestured toward a narrow footpath that disappeared into the jungle. "The main site is about ten minutes in. We set up camp here in order to minimize the excavation's environmental impact."

Six months of squints and dusty artifacts had driven her back into her shell. She was edgy with him. Distant. He didn't understand why, but he recognized the signs. Okay, then. He would see the dig, and he would do his best to look interested while she went on about bones and prehistoric tools and whatever the hell else she was so excited about. But in the silences between he would try to show her again that the world of the living could be pretty damned fascinating, too.

Striving for an enthusiasm he didn't feel, Booth nodded. "Lead on, Bones."

She pointed at his worn duffle bag. "We should stow that in my tent first."

And that probably didn't mean at all what his libido wanted it to mean. "Your tent?"

"Well, you could leave it here if you like. Nobody would bother it, but you might find a _Selenocosmia effera_ inside when you come back."

He grinned. "I love it when you use the big words."

And how much had he missed seeing that look on her face?

"Tarantula," she said patiently, forming her thumbs and forefingers into a circle. "They can get pretty big here—six or seven inches in diameter."

From scorpions to giant spiders. Perfect. "Right. Your tent it is."

"This way."

He fell into step beside her, pausing when she stopped to speak to the woman with the glasses. The woman—middle-aged, with black hair that hung down the center of her back in a neat braid, and a brightly flowered cotton shirt—took one look at Booth and fired off a stream of what sounded like Spanish. Bones shook her head and responded calmly, but her shoulders tensed, and she gave Booth a quick, uneasy glance. The other woman answered with a regretful click of the tongue, a shake of the head, and then a nod.

Bones turned back to him. "We should take some water with us. The combination of heat and humidity can cause rapid dehydration."

"And we get that where, exactly?"

"Dining hut," she said, hooking a thumb toward a small building separated from the main camp by a shallow stream and what looked like a well-used fire pit. "My tent is over there," she went on, and pointed toward a ragtag grouping of canvas structures a few yards away. "Second from the left. I'll get some bottled water and meet you at the trailhead."

She started off, stopped, and turned back. "I'm sorry. I should have asked. Are you tired? Hungry? I can get you something to eat ..."

"Slept on the plane, ate on the boat. I'm good." He glanced up, checking the angle of the sun. "Besides, it's better if I stay awake until it gets dark."

"Right. Jet lag." In her eyes he saw the first hint of the Temperance Brennan he remembered—the warm, thoughtful woman he'd left behind in DC, rather than the distant, prickly one he'd met six years ago. "Five minutes?"

"Sure."

He watched her walk away, admiring her confident stride. He was about to move off himself when something drew his attention back to the black-haired woman. She was watching him, a knowing expression in her eyes and a faint smile tugging at the corners of her mouth.

Booth shifted his grip on his bag and turned toward the tents. He couldn't explain his relationship to Bones in his own head, so there was no way in hell he was going to discuss it with a complete stranger—especially one who didn't even speak the same language he did.

The sturdy canvas tents were raised on stilts which, considering the length of the rainy season and the variety of local wildlife, seemed like a smart move. Booth boosted himself up the short ladder, ducked inside, and looked around. The small space was almost painfully neat. And sparse. The only personal item he saw was a framed photograph of Bones and Angela at what looked like some kind of street festival. Other than that there were only two wooden packing crates stacked on top of each other to serve as a makeshift table and a neatly made camp cot covered with mosquito netting. The photo was on top of the crates, along with a kerosene lamp, a ballpoint pen, and a book, _The Ecology of Nusa-Tenggara and Maluku_. He picked it up and flipped through it. At almost a thousand pages, it'd make a good doorstop—if she'd had a door. With a shake of his head, he returned it to its place.

He set his bag on the bed and rummaged inside. He'd packed light, so it only took a second to find his deodorant and bug spray. After applying liberal coats of each, he returned them to his duffle, zipped it up, and set it out of the way on the floor.

Bones was waiting near the path she'd pointed out earlier, a khaki daypack slung over one shoulder and a long, wicked-looking knife in her hand.

"All set?" she asked.

"What's in the bag?"

"Water, flashlights, first aid kit ... We keep the packs in the dining hut for people to check out whenever they leave the work site."

"And the machete?"

"It's called a parang." She examined its edge in the sunlight. "And it's for snakes."

Right. Jungle.

Bones handed him a foil packet and a bottle of water. "Antimalarial tablet."

"Ahh." He popped the pill out of its packet and downed it along with the water, then dropped the empty containers in a nearby trashcan. "Now I'm ready."

He waited until they moved into the shadowy edges of the jungle to bring up the black-haired woman.

"So," he said, "they speak Spanish here, huh?"

"Tia's from Madrid." Bones caught at a low-hanging vine and tugged it out of her way. "We have scientists here from all over the world. Watch out for those palm fronds. The petioles have sharp thorns."

"Friendly."

"They're cycads. They don't have feelings. Look." She dropped to a crouch and leaned in to point out a five-petaled flower whose colors reminded him of a spin art picture Parker had once given him. "Phalaenopsis amboinensis."

"Gesundheit."

She laughed. "It's an orchid. Isn't it beautiful?"

"It certainly is." But he wasn't looking at the flower."So where's this dig of yours?"

"I'm sorry. I know you're anxious to see it. It's just that this island is so fascinating. There are flora and fauna here that you won't find anywhere else in the world."

They started walking again, working their way up the side of a steep hill in the company of raucous bird calls, whining insects, and oppressive humidity. Booth was glad he'd thought to bring his bandanna. In Afghanistan he'd used it to keep sand out of his mouth and nose. Here he would use it to wipe the sweat out of his eyes.

"So tell me about this big discovery you're working on," he said, less because he was interested than because the sound of her voice was one of the things he'd missed the most over the past six months. "What's so special about it?"

She launched into an animated explanation, and as usual when Bones got excited about her work most of what she said went right over his head. But he did catch a few words here and there, and it didn't take long to put two and two together.

"Wait." He caught her elbow, pulling her to a stop. "We're going inside an active volcano?"

"Yes." She seemed surprised by the question. "Well, not inside, exactly, but some portions of the cave system we'll be in were formed by slow moving lava. You do know that the Maluccan archipelago is located at the intersection of three tectonic plates, right? Geologically speaking, all of the islands are very active. Earthquakes and mudslides are quite common."

"Really." Leave it to him to spend his Christmas leave in a place where he couldn't trust the ground beneath his feet to stay where it belonged. Sand storms were bad enough, but earthquakes? Mudslides?

"Yes," she said. "Didn't you do any research at all before you came?" Then without waiting for his response, "It's just up here."

Seconds later the trail came to an abrupt end at a narrow opening in the overgrown hillside. It was no wonder the place had gone undiscovered for so long. Its entrance was all but buried in the thick undergrowth.

"Geez, Bones. In there? Really?"

"It gets wider once you're inside," she answered, dropping to a crouch and shrugging out of her pack.

Booth waved away a cloud of gnats and watched Brennan dig through the faded canvas bag, coming out a few seconds later with a pair of flashlights. She handed one to him.

"Wow. You're a regular Boy Scout," he teased.

Bones blinked up at him. "I don't understand what that means."

"Boy Scout, Bones. Be prepared?" At her puzzled look, he shook his head. "Never mind."

She flashed a bottle of water. "Thirsty?"

"No thanks. I'm good."

He waited while she drank. Finished, she screwed the cap on and tucked the bottle back into the bag.

"Want me to carry that for a while?" he asked.

"Why?"

"To give you a break," he said. "Besides, it's the gentlemanly thing to do."

"That's an antiquated and chauvinistic social construct, Booth. I'm perfectly capable of carrying my own gear."

He lifted his hands in surrender. She was prickly as a blind porcupine. He didn't understand it, but he sure as hell intended to respect it. "Whatever you say, Bones."

Zipping the pack closed, she rose to her feet and flipped it back on her shoulders, then picked up the parang from where she'd left it leaning against the trunk of a tree. "Ready?"

Booth nodded. Maybe if he was lucky, the damned bugs would stay out here.

They squeezed through the opening single file, setting off a small avalanche of dirt and pebbles in their wake. Two yards in the tunnel opened into a broad, low-ceilinged cavern—clearance to stand, but only just. Booth shone his light at the uneven ceiling and made a mental note to keep his head down.

"Careful not to touch the walls," Bones said. Her voice bounced back at them from what sounded like a hundred different directions at once. "This first section is primarily composed of—"

"Limestone. I know." And the oils on his skin would kill the formations. "Parker and I took a trip to Skyline Caverns last spring."

The air inside was a little stale, but it was also both drier and cooler than the air outside. Booth scanned the cavern with his flashlight, the beam dipping under stalactites, rippling across flowstone, and edging around wide columns. The room they were in opened out in half a dozen different directions.

"Which way?" This must have been what Hansel felt like when he realized that birds had eaten the trail of breadcrumbs that was supposed to lead him home.

"Follow me," said Bones. "But be careful. The stone is slippery in places."

"Got it."

As it turned out, slippery spots were the least of his problems.

The cave floor had an infuriating tendency to be someplace other than where he expected it to be. And all those cool formations that were conveniently spotlighted and roped off back home ambushed him here, and Booth soon found that if he tried to protect his skull he inevitably tripped, but if he watched his feet he banged his head.

"This is where you've been working for the last six months?" He slouched around another corner, then ducked under a low hanging stalactite just before it gave him a concussion.

"Not every day, no. Flashlight beams aren't conducive to thorough examination of bone structure. This next section is tight. You'll need to crawl."

He swallowed. "Crawl?"

"And keep your head down. Better to scrape your scapula then puncture your parietal."

"Why, Bones. You're a poet."

"Shut up, Booth."

But there was laughter in her voice, and as he crawled after her he smiled to himself. They were going to be okay. Things were just a little weird after so much time apart, that was all. They'd get their rhythm back.

"This is where the first remains were found," she said a few minutes later. She stretched the kinks out of her back and brushed her hands off on her pants. The parang clanked against a stalagmite as she switched it from one hand to the other.

The cavern was shaped like a lima bean and about the size of a mess tent, with ceilings that rose several feet above their heads and the only level floor they'd encountered since entering the system. It was drier here, too. And the air smelled like dust. He shined his flashlight at the walls. Not limestone. Granite? Or maybe it was volcanic. He thought back to his high school earth science class and that boring-as-hell unit on geology. Basalt. That was it.

"We've cleared the artifacts from this chamber," she was saying, "but you can still see the paintings on the walls and the soot marks on the ceiling. People actually lived here thousands of years ago, Booth. They used sleeping mats and sophisticated stone tools. They cooked their food. They lived together in families and communities." She crossed to the wall and pointed out what looked like smudges of dirt. "Crude pictographs. They recorded their kills and tracked the rainy seasons."

"And—" Even though he didn't really understand her work, he was proud of how good she was at it. "You know how they died."

"Some of them, yes. I can also tell you whether they were left or right handed, which ones limped, and how many of the women gave birth. We've even determined that their primary food source was pygmy elephants. But the most fascinating thing about them is that their bone structure is markedly different from that of almost every other early hominid."

"How so?"

"Well, they were unusually short, for one thing. Just over three feet tall. And their brain volume was only about 400 cubic centimeters. That's about the size of a grapefruit." The excitement was back in her voice, along with the thrill of discovery. "They shouldn't have been able to make stone tools at all, much less the relatively sophisticated ones that have been found both here and on Flores."

"Three feet tall, you say?"

"About that, yes, though their feet were unusually large relative to their height."

He grinned. "It sounds like you're digging for hobbits, Bones."

He'd been joking, but she gave him a look of sharp disapproval. "I dislike that nomenclature. Hobbits are fictional characters. These hominids were very real."

"So you're telling me that once upon a time, many, many years ago, itty bitty humans hunted itty bitty elephants on an itty bitty island in the middle of nowhere."

"That's a vast oversimplification, but basically correct. Yes."

"Okay, I can see how that would be kind of interesting, but these people died thousands of years ago." He lifted his hands, palm up. What he was about to say was a risk, he knew that. But he needed to know that she was happy with the choices she'd made. "I hate to sound insensitive, Bones, but why does it even matter now? What makes this ancient history stuff so much more important than the murders you and I solved every day?"

"Because it _is_ history, Booth. _Our_ history. Everything we learn about these people helps us understand ourselves a little better."

Booth tilted the flashlight so he could see her face without blinding her. How far could he push before she pushed back? "If that's true," he said, "then by now you should understand everything there is to know about the human condition, right? I mean when you consider the number of bones you've examined over the years ..."

She held his gaze for the briefest of moments before looking away. "It doesn't work like that."

"No," he said quietly. "No, I guess it doesn't."

But she'd already moved off, her flashlight beam dipping into an opening in the far wall. "There are dozens of chambers like this down here. And that's just in the sections we've finished mapping. It'll be years before the work is complete and the caves can be opened to the public. Come with me. I'll show you what I mean."

As he fell into step behind her he could've sworn the figures in the cave paintings watched him go. And maybe they did. What if the souls of some of those little people were still hanging around? They'd lived their lives in the best way they knew how. Hadn't they earned the right to rest in peace?

"Uh. Bones? What happens to all those bones when you finish studying them?"

"They'll be mounted, tagged, and placed in acrylic cases for display. Some of them will probably be part of a traveling exhibit."

Booth shook his head. "See. Now that's just wrong."

"Why?"

"They should be given a proper burial. Hell, to be honest, it's a little creepy that a bunch of squints are coming in here and disturbing them like this. Don't you worry that there might be some kind of voodoo curse on the place?"

"Of course not. Curses are designed to take advantage of people's superstitious natures, that's all. They're meant to cause fear rather than actual pain. Besides, these people have been dead for thousands of years. They can't hurt anybody."

"What about the Curse of the Pharaohs?"

Bones tucked her flashlight under her chin so that it gave her face an eerie glow, and spoke in sepulchral tones that bounced off the stone walls and made the hairs at the back of Booth's neck stand on end. "The gods will not allow anything to happen to me. Anyone who defiles my tomb ...the crocodile, the hippopotamus, and the lion will eat him."

Booth shuddered. "Yeah. Like that."

Dropping the flashlight from her face, she directed the beam at him. "Hogwash."

"You did not just say that. Nobody says hogwash anymore."

"Well obviously that's not true, because I just did."

She strode off down the steeply sloping tunnel, and he hurried to catch up to her. "I can't believe you're joking about this."

"I'm not joking. I just don't believe that superstition and fantasy should keep us from learning everything we can about the past."

Booth skidded to a stop, wondering if he'd heard that right. "Is that what this is about? Is that what it's been about all this time?"

Ahead of him, Bones turned. "What are you talking about?"

"You think that if you analyze enough bones, solve that whole mystery of life thing, maybe then you'll understand what happened to you."

"Don't be ridiculous. One has nothing to do with the other." Dismissing the question, she dropped to her stomach and slithered into yet another tunnel.

"Bones. Wait."

A beam of light collided with his kneecaps. "I'm right here, Booth." Her irritation bounced off the stone walls.

 _So close, but still so far_. "Look, I'm sorry. I didn't mean to upset you."

"I'm fine."

The light disappeared, and Booth swallowed a curse as he dropped to his stomach and slithered into the narrow space behind her.

A few seconds later he found himself in a space that was about four feet long and maybe three wide. The low ceiling meant they couldn't stand, so Booth levered himself into a sitting position next to Bones, back to the wall, knees tucked up under his chin.

"Cozy," he observed wryly.

After he was settled Bones directed her flashlight beam at the opposite wall and Booth sucked in a breath as it came to life. A procession of simple images marched across it, disappearing around a corner at the other end of the tiny alcove.

"This was one of their burial chambers. The entire system is honeycombed with them." She pointed her light at the wall behind his shoulder. "Do you see the chip marks in the stone? The sharp angles and straight edges?"

"Here?" He pointed. "And here?"

"That's right." The enthusiasm was back in her voice. "These chambers were hand carved out of solid stone. Each one must have taken years, and we've found dozens."

"Wait. They actually buried their dead? I didn't think ancient humans did that."

"There's evidence that Neanderthals started burying their dead 100,000 years ago, and these remains are much younger than that, maybe fifteen to eighteen thousand years old."

"Okay, now hang on. You're telling me that right this minute I'm sitting in somebody's coffin?" The thought made him a little queasy.

"Catacombs would be a more accurate comparison, but those were usually built under cities, and the earliest known evidence of urbanization didn't appear until five or ten thousand years later."

"And you found somebody's skeleton here?"

"Well, yes. In fact I was studying the bones of this particular skeleton just yesterday."

"Wonderful." He wanted to be excited for her, or at least supportive, but the best he could manage was a weak smile. "Can we go now?"

She gave him one of those looks that meant she was trying to work something out in her head. Then her eyes widened. She lifted her hand as if to touch his arm, and he wanted that, wanted it desperately. But almost before he could acknowledge the thought she hesitated, her fingers drifting uneasily through the stale air before falling back to her lap.

"I'm sorry, Booth. I neglected to consider your religious beliefs. I imagine this is very uncomfortable for you. Yes, we can go now."

But before either of them could move, there was a low rumble from the ground beneath their feet. They stared at each other as the rumble grew to a dull roar. The floor began to shiver and roll, and Booth acted on instinct, pushing Bones down and covering her body with his. She cried out. Or he did. Chunks of rock fell from the ceiling. Choking dust rolled over them and dirt and gravel rained down on their heads and backs.

Somewhere on the other side of the tunnel they'd come through Booth heard a loud crash. Acting on instinct, he reached for his gun, found it missing, and remembered where he was.

In a cave.

Underground.

During an earthquake.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter may be triggering for those with claustrophobia or other anxiety issues.

  
It was dark. Blindingly dark. Dust clogged her throat. Her right hand was trapped underneath her body, but her left was free. She moved it experimentally. No pain, which meant that aside from some scrapes and bruises she was unhurt. There was something heavy on top of her. Her mind blanked. Then she remembered.

"Booth."

No response. Was he unconscious? Worse?

She was pinned. By Booth. In the dark. Underground. This wasn't happening. Couldn't be happening. Her heart rate jumped. Sweat broke out on her brow. She struggled to free herself.

"Booth!"

The space had been small to begin with, but now she imagined it closing in on her, squeezing precious air out of her lungs. They were going to die here. They would lie here, trapped under all this rock, and slowly suffocate.

 _No!_

But it was a silent scream. Even now, with fear washing over her in great, icy waves, she knew better than to set off sonic reverberations in tunnels already weakened by the quake.

She shoved her free hand through piles of debris, grunting when her fingers slammed into rocks or snagged on jagged edges. Where were the damned flashlights? She had to find them. And they had to get out of here. Now. Before an aftershock brought the whole place crashing down on their heads. She squirmed again, desperate, her pulse pounding in her ears while she sucked in air that belonged to the dead.

There was a low groan. Above her, Booth shifted. His weight lifted off her, then his hand brushed against her arm. She flinched, startled by the contact, and listened to him cough and spit.

"Are you okay?" he asked. She clung to the sound of his voice.

"I'm fine." But her voice trembled, and she couldn't make herself stop shaking. She pushed herself upright and listened to rocks and gravel sliding off her legs as she stretched them out in front of her. _This isn't the Gravedigger again_. _Don't panic. Think._ But it didn't matter because in the end, nature and geology might accomplish what Heather Taffet could not.

She swallowed hard. Fought to steady her voice. She wouldn't let the panic win. "Can you find your light?"

"Um. Hang on a sec."

She heard him digging through rubble. Heard rock clatter against rock. The slide of gravel. Booth's grunt as he heaved aside something heavy. Forcing air into a throat thickened by fear, she shoved her hands through the rocks again and again. She strained to see something, anything, but it was no use. It was too dark. Darker than it had been in her car that time. Darker than—Nobody knew they were here. Icy fear rolled through her. Nobody knew. _Why hadn't she told Tia?_

"Bones." Booth's hand landed on her arm. She jumped, startled as a wild deer, then latched onto his fingers with a kind of desperate gratitude. "We're going to be okay."

"Nobody knows where we are, Booth." She hated the weakness in her voice. Frustrated, angry at herself for losing control, she concentrated on breathing. Inhale. Count to three. Exhale. Her head started to clear, but her hands still shook.

"I thought you told Tia." He didn't sound upset. He didn't even sound very worried. She felt his fingers tighten on her arm, then loosen again in a light squeeze that was probably meant to reassure her.

"Only that I was going to show you around. I didn't give her any specifics." She refused to cry. They were going to be okay. They were going to get out. Booth was with her, and Booth never gave up. Never.

"Don't you think she'll figure it out when we don't show up back at camp tonight?" Another stone clattered against the far wall.

Talking helped her focus. She was tempted to thank him, but it seemed strange to thank somebody for something as simple as conversation. "She doesn't live on this island. She's staying with a family over on Flores. She only helps out here part time."

"And if we don't get back before she leaves?"

Blunt mannered Tia wouldn't think twice. "She'll probably assume we're off having sex someplace."

There was a heartbeat of silence, and when he spoke again, he sounded a little strained.

"So ..."

"Well, she won't be surprised not to see us before she leaves today, and tomorrow she's flying back to Madrid to spend the holidays with her family, so ..."

"Okay," he said briskly, "so we're on our own. We'll figure something out. Starting with—" She heard a faint click, and suddenly the small chamber was flooded with light. "This."

She blinked against the sudden contraction of her pupils. Relief pushed a sigh from her lungs and calmed her hands, but when the light played over the chamber entrance she tensed.

"Oh, no."

It was filled with fallen rock.

Booth shrugged and looked around. "Well, we'll just have to dig ourselves out. Where's that knife?"

"Parang," she corrected automatically. "You can't cut them up, Booth."

He gave her a look. "I want to use it as a crowbar."

"Oh." She needed to pull herself together. She was no good to either of them this way. "I—" She'd been about to say she couldn't find it when her hand closed over the handle. "Here." She pulled it free and handed it over. "Booth?"

"What?" He was already digging at the rocks that blocked the tunnel, grunting occasionally as he heaved aside some of the heavier boulders.

"Never mind." She wasn't going to ask what if questions. There was no point. One of two things was going to happen: either they would dig themselves out, or they would die.

When she finally found her own flashlight she gripped it hard, her fingers pressing into the ridged rubber until her palm throbbed a complaint. She should put it in the pack. They only had two, and using both at the same time would be a foolhardy waste of battery power. She knew that. But it still took every ounce of will she possessed to drag the day pack into her lap and shove the flashlight inside.

With her jaw set so tight her teeth ached, she zipped the pack closed, set it aside, and moved to help Booth.

It took a while to clear enough rubble so that they could work their way out of the burial room and through the short connecting passage to the central chamber. When she finally got to her feet beside Booth at the other end, Brennan was glad to straighten and stretch, flexing the ache from her wrists.

"Damn it." Booth's low curse drew her attention to the dusty track of his flashlight beam. Part of the ceiling had collapsed, blocking the entrance to the main tunnel, and judging by the size of some of the boulders, there was no way they were going to dig themselves out this time.

"I don't suppose you know another way out?" he asked, his shoulder brushing against hers.

Staring at the blocked tunnel, she shook her head and pressed fingernail-shaped crescents into her palms. "No."

They both followed the slow track of the flashlight beam through the cavern, but the only openings were the one they'd just emerged from and another, smaller hole some twenty feet away.

"Any idea where that leads?"

"No, I've never been that way."

His light tracked back to her, the beam lighting her face, but she dropped her eyes and turned her head away, hoping he wouldn't see how worried she was.

"Let's hope it isn't a dead end," he said quietly.

She wished he hadn't said that. "Maybe we should stay here."

"You were the one who just said—"

"I know. But maybe I was wrong. Maybe Tia will think to check the cave." She couldn't make up her mind, couldn't think straight. The feeling was both unfamiliar and highly unpleasant.

"Maybe."

"Booth, what if we never get out of here? What if ..." It was a pointless, self-defeating question, one she'd sworn she wouldn't ask, and a perfect example of negative thinking, which she abhorred. But she couldn't seem to make it stop running through her mind. Would they excavate _her_ skeleton some day? Would a forensic anthropologist pore over her bones and Booth's and determine that they'd died of starvation, or worse, been crushed to death by a massive cave-in? The thought sent a chill racing up her spine.

"Hey." His voice, grim and determined, brought her eyes leaping back to his. His jaw was set, and he looked almost angry, but his gaze was warm, soft. "I'm not going to let anything happen to you, okay? We're going to get out of here. Together."

"But how? The tunnel's completely collapsed. Nobody knows where we are. And even if they did, there's no way to know how badly the system was damaged by the quake. We're trapped down here." Despite herself, she felt panic rising in her throat. "I don't want to die here, Booth. Not like this. Not buried alive." It was her worst nightmare coming true, and she fought the urge to claw at the rocks.

"Bones!"

Sharp and hard, his tone brought her eyes around to his face as he grabbed her shoulders, squeezed, and then shook her, not enough to hurt, but enough to snap her out of it. She stared at him, her throat aching with the effort to draw in enough air.

"We're going to be okay. I promise."

"I'm sorry. I—" She swallowed hard, forced her chest to expand. "I'm not helping."

"Hey, if anybody has the right to fall apart in a situation like this, it's you."

She shook her head. "No. I shouldn't have allowed myself to lose control. It was completely irrational."

He stared at her for a long moment, and she wondered what he was thinking. Then his hands fell away from her shoulders. "Right. The first order of business in any survival situation is to take inventory. What do you have in that pack of yours?"

"I told you earlier." She disliked having to repeat herself and had to fight the urge to snap at him. "First aid kit, water, and flashlights."

He shook his head. "Specifics, Bones. We need to know what we have to work with." It was clearly his soldier voice, the one he probably used with his trainees. While she didn't appreciate his tone, she knew he was right. She blew out a breath and dragged the pack off shoulders that already ached from tossing aside rubble.

Ten minutes later the contents of their pockets and the daypack were spread out around them on the cavern floor. They had two and a half liters of water, a small flint, fifty feet of parachute cord, a rudimentary first aid kit, a can of Sterno, an emergency rain poncho, two packets of powdered bouillon (one chicken and one beef), two granola bars, and one four ounce bag of trail mix. They also had some insect repellent, a collapsible aluminum pot, and one more item, a set of laminated cards held together at the corner by a metal ring. Booth poked at it.

"What's this?"

"An insect and reptile guide. Hodgins made it for me," she said, and found herself wishing he were here. He would understand, probably even better than Booth, what it felt like to be trapped down here. "I told him I loved him, too."

Booth looked at her, eyebrows raised.

"What? You're the one who told me that the proffering of overly solicitous advice was indicative of love."

"I said that?"

"Yes."

He looked doubtful, but instead of arguing with her he dug in his pockets and added a pack of gum, a pocket knife, a bandanna, and a handful of coins to the pile. Brennan tossed in a hair band, a ball point pen, and a notepad. They also had the parang and their flashlights.

Finished, they sat back on their heels. Booth was the first to speak.

"Well," he said, "I've been in tighter spots."

"But none of these items are useful. We need pickaxes. Shovels. Head lamps. And we only have a day's worth of water."

"There's water here in the caves. We just need to boil it."

"One can of Sterno, Booth. And it's a small one."

"You can boil a lot of water with a single can of Sterno."

"So we just wait it out?"

"No. No way am I going to just _sit_ here." He glanced at his watch, then angled his head toward the hole they'd noticed earlier. "We'll get some rest, then see where that leads."

After they'd each taken a few sips of water, they packed up the gear and settled down with their backs to the wall.

"Bones ... We should turn off the flashlight."

"Oh." She looked at the light. They'd stood it on the floor while they worked, its beam pointed upward so they could see what they were doing and still have their hands free. Even thinking about turning it off made Brennan's heart race. But the light wouldn't protect them from another cave-in, and they needed to save the batteries.

"You're right, of course." Her hand closed around the rubber barrel, her thumb hesitating over the switch. She told herself to turn it off, but couldn't quite bring herself to do it.

"It's okay, Bones. I'm right here. And I'm not going to let anything happen to you."

She stiffened. She didn't need his sympathy. She didn't want to need _him_. Part of the reason she'd taken this job was because she had realized just how much she'd come to rely on him. It had taken most of the past six months to stop missing him all the time so that she could devote her full attention to her work. And then the instant she'd looked up and seen him standing there with that little-boy smile on his face it had all come flooding back, and she'd had to fight a ridiculous urge to run into his arms. Damn it, she'd walked away from him in that airport because she'd had to, because even though it was one of the hardest things she'd ever done, it was always better to be the one leaving than the one being left.

With a brisk, sharp movement, she flicked the switch, plunging the cave into darkness. Then she drew up her knees, wrapped her arms around them, and concentrated on taking slow, deliberate breaths, determined to subdue her fears without any help from him.

"I've been meaning to ask you something," Booth said conversationally.

"What?" she snapped, hoping to discourage him. She didn't feel very much like talking. But he went on, either unaware of her mood or ignoring it.

"That picture in your tent. The one of you and Angela."

"What about it?"

"When was it taken?"

"Cherry Blossom Festival," she said, and relaxed despite herself as the memory of that day teased out a reluctant smile. "Last year. Angela found out I'd never been, and she insisted we go."

"I've only been once myself. I took Parker a few years ago. He thought the flowers were cool."

"Angela took her sketchbook," she said. "Of course, Angela takes her sketchbook everywhere."

It occurred to her belatedly that her comment might be interpreted as criticism when she'd only been making an observation. But Booth said nothing, and she rushed in to fill the silence.

"I don't think I've ever seen so many people in one place," she said. The memories—the sun shining through flower-laden branches, the families sprawling across brightly patterned blankets with their coolers full of food, the kids chasing each other, shrieking and laughing—were some of her favorites. "Angela drew this picture ... A little girl with a red balloon. It was quite good."

"Angela is a talented artist."

"Yes, she is."

"So that's why you brought that picture with you? Because it makes you happy?"

He sounded like he was searching for something, some answer she didn't have and couldn't give. "No. I brought it because Angela gave it to me at the airport."

"So, you hadn't planned on bringing pictures at all."

She shook her head, then remembered that he couldn't see her. "I came here to work, Booth. Not to look at pictures."

"Ahh."

He'd been doing something while they talked. She knew, because sometimes his shoulder or arm brushed against hers in the darkness. Curiosity piqued, she tilted her head in his direction. "What are you doing?"

"Just ... one ... second ... There. Give me your hand."

Curious, she did as she was told, misjudged, and felt her fingers slide along his cheek instead. It confused her until she realized he had his head down.

"Easy there, Bones. You almost put out my eye." Then his fingers wrapped around hers.

The contact sent an unexpected tremor through her. She hadn't forgotten how lean and strong his fingers were, but she had worked hard to put the memory out of her mind. The unexpected tactile reminder was disconcerting.

She tried to pull away, but he held fast. "Booth ..."

"Open your hand," he said softly.

"Booth, I don't know—"

"Open your hand," he said again. "Please?"

Her breath hitched in her throat. When he pitched his voice low like that she always got an odd, though not unpleasant, feeling in her stomach. No other man had ever had that effect on her. She found the fact distinctly unsettling. Slowly, she let her fingers unfurl.

"Thank you." He dropped something in her open palm. Then he curled her fingers back in and released her. "Careful. Don't crush it."

She drew her hand back. "What is it?"

"Guess."

She opened her fingers and traced the edges of the object with her other hand. As it took shape in her mind, she smiled. She hadn't known he could do origami.

"It's a star," she said, touched.

"Well I figured that since you can't, you know, be out there with the sky, maybe it'd help if you had a little piece of it in here."

She touched one of the tiny points. "Diffraction spikes," she said.

"What?"

"When viewed by the naked eye, the brightest stars appear to have spikes emanating from them. They're called diffraction spikes. Did you know that Ancient Egyptian hieroglyphs depicted stars with five points?"

"No, I didn't."

She closed her fingers over the gift, cradling it in her palm. "Thank you," she said.

"You're welcome."

"What did you use to make it?"

There was the faintest hint of embarrassment in his answer. "Gum wrapper."

Silver foil, then, and he'd folded it by touch. "I didn't know you were so creative."

She must have sounded surprised, because when he answered there was a hint of defensiveness in his voice. "There's a lot you don't know about me, Bones."

"I'm sorry. I didn't mean to offend you. I only meant—"

"Forget it. Let's just get some sleep, okay?"

"But I'm not tired." And sleeping seemed like a bad idea. What if she didn't wake up? What if _he_ didn't?

"Try. It could be a while before you get another chance."

Dread curled in her stomach. "What do you mean by that?"

"Nothing. Just ... humor me, okay?"

Reluctantly, she subsided, tucking the tiny star safely away in her shirt pocket and closing her eyes. But she was restless, unable to relax. She tried to be still, but when Booth grew quiet for what seemed like a long time, she started to worry.

"Booth?"

"Hmm?"

He sounded drowsy, which puzzled her at first, because it wasn't that late. Then she remembered. Jet lag. Of course. She'd been selfish not to think about that earlier.

"I'm glad you're here."

He didn't answer for so long that she thought maybe he'd already fallen asleep.

Then his voice drifted to her ears, soft and oddly intense. "So am I." She heard him yawn. "Still can't sleep?"

"No."

"You could rest your head on my shoulder if you want."

"Why?"

"Because you'll be more comfortable." She felt him pluck at her sleeve, pulling her toward him. "I promise I won't bite."

"Do you often bite people who put their heads on your shoulder, thus necessitating a promise that you won't do it this time?" It was the sort of thing Zack might have said once, and she expected Booth to respond accordingly, so his low laugh caught her off guard.

"No, I don't. In fact, I almost never bite."

"Oh. Well. That's good." Though she knew from personal experience that there were occasions when the properly timed application of teeth to certain parts of the human anatomy could be quite pleasurable.

Frustrated with herself, she clamped down on that line of thought. Then, because it really was more comfortable, she closed her eyes and let her head settle against Booth's shoulder. He said nothing, but his arm shifted against hers, and she felt him let out a deep sigh.

She didn't know how long she slept, and at first she wasn't sure what had woken her. Then Booth shifted restlessly at her side, his shoulder jostling hers, and he mumbled something unintelligible under his breath. She was about to ask him to repeat himself when she realized he was dreaming. She couldn't make out his words, but there was a kind of frantic desperation building behind them.

"Booth?" She touched his shoulder, unsure how best to wake him up without making things worse. "Booth, wake up."

"No!" His shout reverberated through the cavern, startling her and setting off a small avalanche of pebbles and dirt as he rocketed to his feet. "Get out of there!"

Startled by the vehemence of his reaction, Bones twisted to her knees and reached out, slicing her arm back and forth until it made sharp contact with his leg."Booth! It's okay! It's just a dream!"

She'd been so caught up in her work that it never even occurred to ask him about Afghanistan. And this was _exactly_ why she shouldn't be in a serious relationship—with him or anybody else. She'd spent too much of her life thinking only of herself. She didn't know how to think about anybody else.

"Booth. We're in the cave. In Maluku. Remember?"

With her hand still on his leg, she sensed the moment he became fully aware of his surroundings, but she didn't let her hand fall away until he sank to the floor beside her.

"Geez, Bones. I'm sorry. I didn't mean to scare you."

"I'm fine. Besides, it wasn't your fault."

"I just ..." His voice sounded strange. Not like him at all.

"Do you want to talk about it?" she asked.

"No!" Stones rattled against each other as he felt for something in the dark. "No," he said again, his voice quieter but still tense. "I really don't."

An instant later, the flashlight came on, and Brennan blinked in the sudden brightness.

"We should get going." He aimed the beam away from himself and reached for the pack. "And it's my turn to carry this."

She would have protested, but he turned away, and she scrambled to grab the parang and hurry after him.

On the far side of the cavern Booth dropped to his knees and shone the light into the hole they'd noticed the night before. The way the light faded into the narrow fissure made Brennan shift uneasily as her concern for Booth was hijacked by the reminder of where they were.

"It's going to be a tight squeeze," he said over his shoulder. "But I think we can make it on our stomachs.

She focused her attention on him, refusing to look at the hole. "Booth—"

"Stay close. The last thing we need is to lose each other in here."

"Booth." She said it more firmly this time, determined to get his attention despite the restless twitch along her spine.

"What?" He swung the light around, and when he tilted it to see her face, she got a glimpse of his, as well. His jaw was tight, his eyes haunted. She'd never seen him like this, and it frightened her—not on her own behalf, but on his. He'd always seemed so strong, so completely in control. Was it possible all that was just a facade?

"Shouldn't we leave some kind of marker?"

"Marker?"

Booth was a smart man, so she assumed his lack of understanding was because he was distracted, and not because her question had been unclear.

"Yes, so that if anybody does come looking for us ..."

"Oh." He flashed the light back the way they'd come. "Damn it. Just ..." He scrubbed his free hand over his face and sucked in a deep, shuddering breath. "Okay. I'm sorry. Yes, of course we should."

He strode back across the cavern, and she watched him go, his body no more than a bulky silhouette in the looming darkness. When he knelt and started gathering stones she crossed to see what he was doing.

"It's called laying trail," he said at her approach. "We'll use stone, since that's what we have. This," He stacked two medium-sized rocks on top of each other, "marks the trail. This," He took another, smaller stone, and placed it to one side of the two he'd stacked, "shows which direction we went. And this," Three successively smaller rocks balanced one atop the other, "is a warning. It means stay back, stay away, keep clear ... whatever."

He twisted his head around to look up at her. "Got it?"

Even when she'd _been_ a child she'd resented being treated like one. "Of course I do. It isn't difficult." But she hadn't known there were standardized signs for this kind of thing. What would she have done if she'd been here without him? Arrows? His method was much more efficient.

"Good."

Booth set up the first marker, walked part way across the cavern, crouched again, and reached for more stones. "We'll set markers every ten to fifteen paces," he said. "That way people don't assume they've lost the trail and double back.

She moved past him and set up the third marker while he watched.

"Good," he said, nodding. "Okay. Now we're ready."

He dropped to his stomach and wiggled into the opening, and when the light disappeared with him, she was quick to follow.

Movement through the tunnel was slow. Barely wide enough for their passage, it was cluttered with earthquake debris that Booth passed back to her, stone by stone, to be dropped behind them as they went. They didn't talk, all their energy focused on moving forward, but several times Booth stopped and shone the light back along the tunnel, and she knew he was checking on her.

The work took on a kind of routine monotony, every inch of forward progress gained at painstaking expense, and she was sweating hard when Booth finally called out that he'd reached a new cavern. A minute later he slithered forward, disappeared, and then he was bending down and shining the light in at her.

"Give me your hands," he said.

She did, lying flat on her stomach and stretching her arms as far as she could over her head. He wrapped his hands around her wrists and pulled, and a second later she found herself standing beside him.

"Careful." He steadied her while she found her balance. "There's a drop off here. Looks pretty deep." He aimed the flashlight beam downward, but it faded into the darkness without finding bottom. And when he dropped a rock over, several seconds passed before they heard it hit something far below.

Brennan mopped her face with her shirt sleeve and watched Booth set the trail markers—one for the direction they were going to go next, and two warning markers near the drop off. Back on his feet, he tugged the daypack from his shoulders and pulled out one of the bottles of water.

"Go easy," he said, handing it to her. "We have to conserve, but we can't allow ourselves to get dehydrated, either."

She glared at him over the top of the bottle. First the thing with the stones, and now this. "I do know basic survival skills, Booth."

"Good," he said, seemingly unmoved by her tone, "but we're going to need more than the basics if we're going to get out of this place alive."

The only thing that kept her from throwing the bottle at him was the fact that he was right. Still, she couldn't help feeling a simmering resentment as she unscrewed the cap and tipped a mouthful of water past her lips. She wouldn't be here at all if it weren't for him. She'd be out there, analyzing artifact number 6359B, instead of trapped in here where she had to fight, _every_ second, against her memories of that damned Gravedigger.

She recapped the bottle and was about to hand it back to him when a distant rumble made her pause. Before she even registered what she was hearing, Booth cursed and pushed her back against the wall, shielding her with his body as the ground beneath their feet started to twist and roll. The shaking quickly worsened, and she spread her feet, widening her center of balance, then splayed her hands flat against the wall behind her. Booth shouted something, but it got lost in the cacophony of falling rock and shattering formations.

"What?" she yelled.

"Get your head down!"

The barrel of the flashlight knocked against her temple and then he was forcing her head down against his chest and bending his own head over hers. He was being a hero again. Well not this time. Not here. Not now. And not because of her. She struggled, pushing against his shoulders as she tried to lift her head.

"Let me go!"

But he only shoved her harder against the wall, his strength more than a match for hers. He was going to die protecting her. He would fall off the ledge or get hit by a boulder, and he'd be gone and she would be alone again. The floor heaved beneath her feet, and rocks rained down around them, some hitting Booth, others landing on the floor or bouncing off of it before rolling off the ledge. And then instead of fighting him off she was flinging her arms around his waist and holding on, her strength fueled by fear and desperation. She couldn't protect him from the falling rock, but maybe she could anchor him so that if the ledge broke away, it wouldn't take him with it.

Seconds later, the earth gave one last mighty shudder and then gradually grew still. They were left with the sound of their labored breathing and a last, slow slide of settling rock. Neither one of them moved, and the darkness that closed in around them seemed to Brennan darker and thicker than ever before.

"Are you okay?" he asked.

His voice was muffled against the back of her neck, but when she nodded he eased his hold, and she lifted her head. She kept her arms locked around him, certain that if he stepped back the ledge would give way and he would fall.

"What about you?"

There was a pause, and she imagined him taking inventory. "I don't think anything's broken."

Not broken didn't mean not bleeding. The thought made her tighten her hold on him again.

"Hey," his voice was little more than a whisper at her ear. "Take it easy there, Bones. I still need to breathe, you know."

"I'm sorry." She forced her arms to relax, but she couldn't quite let him go. She tried to tell herself again that she didn't need him, that she was better off alone, but the sudden brutal reminder of just how easily she could lose him paralyzed her.

"I dropped the light," he said. "But I don't think it went over the edge. It's probably buried in the rubble somewhere."

When he turned his head to look—a pointless gesture in the pitch black interior of the cave—his lips brushed against her temple. It was a light touch, barely there, but it was enough for her to feel the moist warmth of his breath against her skin.

He hesitated, still pressed against her. He had one hand on her shoulder, the other at the curve of her waist. Her heart skipped a beat and then raced ahead as lack of sight heightened her other senses and drew her attention to the intimacy of their position. His body was leaner than she remembered and tightly muscled, and hers responded instinctively, each point of contact throbbing with new awareness. A part of her mind analyzed and catalogued the chemical reactions that were taking place in her brain even as her tongue slipped out to moisten her lips. This was a bad idea. She knew that. Her rational side was screaming warnings at her even as her hand sought out the curve of his spine. But need too long denied was impossible to ignore now, and instead of backing off, she reveled in Booth's swift, shallow intake of breath.

"Bones ..."

His voice sounded strangled, but he made no attempt to move away. If anything, his hips settled more firmly against hers.

"Temperance."

When he said it like that, lingering over the syllables like they were Belgian chocolates or fine wine, she felt special. Treasured. She gathered in a breath of her own, his name sounding on the exhale as little more than a whisper.

"Booth ..."

She couldn't have said if she meant it as invitation or supplication, but it didn't matter because he was already blazing a trail of kisses down the side of her face. And when he bracketed her head with his palms and found her mouth with his she pulled him closer, fingertips kneading at his spine as the pressure of his growing arousal triggered an answering emptiness deep inside her womb.

He tasted of dust and the salty tang of sweat, and smelled of insect repellent, deodorant, and yes, more dust, but beyond all that she found the heady, distinctive smell she'd long since come to recognize as belonging only to him. She strained closer, drinking him in, asking for more, offering more, and his arms came around her as he drove his tongue deep inside her mouth. She let her head fall back and flicked her tongue along the edge of his, teasing and tasting until somebody, she wasn't sure who, uttered a muffled, hungry groan that made heat curl and snap in her stomach.

His hand slid from her face to explore the curve of her breast, and she arched her back in silent encouragement, her body responding to his in ways that weren't about rational thought at all, but only primal need. How often had she wondered what it would be like to have him touch her this way, and to touch him in return? How much time had she wasted fantasizing about him instead of getting any work done?

It was the thought of work—of science and bones and _history_ —that snapped Brennan back to reality. Stunned at how close she'd come to losing control, she jerked her head away, only to bang it against the cavern wall.

"Damn it!"

"What the—?" Booth steadied her with one arm around her waist and the other loosely draped across her shoulders. "What the hell was that?"

"Nothing. Just ..." Then the pain hit and she swore again. "Just give me a minute, okay?"

He tried to gather her in again, but she pushed him back. She needed to think. They both needed to think.

"Here." He pressed her back against the wall. "Sit tight for a minute while I get out the other flashlight."

She let the wall take her weight and waited for the throbbing in her skull to ease while she listened to the sounds of Booth shrugging out of the pack and unzipping it. That kiss had been stupid. And inexcusably cruel. She knew what he wanted from her, what he yearned for. She couldn't be that for him, no matter how much she might wish otherwise.

An instant later the spare flashlight clicked on, its light angled toward the floor of the cave.

Part of the ledge had indeed broken off and fallen away under the force of falling rock, but it wasn't as bad as she'd been afraid it would be. There was still room for them to cross the chamber safely. Booth knelt and dug through the rocks and gravel that cluttered the ledge around them. It didn't take long to find the other flashlight, and shortly after that he came up with the parang as well, though Brennan didn't remember dropping it.

Tucking one of the flashlights back into the daypack, Booth got to his feet. He propped the parang against the cavern wall and zipped the pack one handed, holding it and the active flashlight in his other hand. But instead of watching what he was doing, he was watching her.

"How's your head?" he asked.

"Better. Thanks." She busied herself kicking loose rocks and gravel out of the way, but she felt his eyes on her. With a sigh, she looked up. "I'm sorry," she said softly. "That was a mistake."

"It didn't feel like a mistake to me. In fact—" Booth took a step closer, then stopped when she took a corresponding step back. "It felt to me like we were finally getting it right."

"No." She shook her head. "It was just a crisis induced adrenalin response. That's all. It's normal for people to feel sexually aroused after a near-death experience. It's nature's way of insuring the survival of the species." She was talking too fast, the words tripping over each other as they spilled out of her mouth. She stopped. Took a breath. "That's all it was, Booth. Just adrenalin."

He studied her for a long, tense moment. Then he blew out a breath. "Adrenalin. Right. Whatever you say, Bones." She could tell by his tone that he didn't really agree with her, but he let it go. "Did the tunnel collapse?"

The abrupt change of subject caught her off guard. "What?"

"The tunnel we just came through," he said patiently. "Did it collapse?" He pointed his light at the small opening, and Brennan bent to check.

"Not as far as I can see."

"Good. Then why don't you reset those markers."

"Oh. Yes. Of course." She did as he instructed, careful to make sure she chose big enough rocks that the markers would be readily identified as such.

While she worked she attempted to convince herself that she'd been telling him the truth about adrenalin responses and human nature, but no matter how hard she tried she couldn't seem to put aside how good it had felt to be held in his arms.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter may be triggering for those with claustrophobia or anxiety issues.

She was the most frustrating, exasperating, thick-headed ... stubborn woman he had ever known, and God must surely have been laughing the day he linked their fates together. Sometimes he had to fight the urge to shake her. More often, he had to rein in his fury at her family—because while they weren't the only reason she was like this, they were a big part of it.

He didn't say any of that to her, though. Instead he just watched while she reset the trail markers. Then he gave her the flashlight and waved her into the lead. When she slipped past him, doing her best to stay as far away as possible, he bit back a curse.

 _You were right, Gordon. The heart chooses what it chooses. But do you mind telling me why mine chose her?_

They hit three dead ends that day, doubling back and resetting the trail markers before trying new paths. Twice they stopped for water breaks, and after the second one Booth realized they needed to start thinking about replenishing their supply. They only had the two bottles now, having lost the third during the aftershock, and both were nearly empty.

"I'm hungry," Bones said, breaking a silence that had lasted almost an hour.

It was late in the day according to Booth's watch. He heaved aside a rock and listened to it clatter against a stalactite, then winced when he heard the formation fall. He'd been trying to be careful, but these flashlight batteries were almost done for, making it impossible to see more than a few feet in any direction.

"Want to stop?" he asked.

They'd been guarded with each other since the kiss, talking only when necessary. He hated the tension, but he couldn't figure out how to fix it.

"For a little while, yeah."

As they'd slithered, crawled, and squeezed their way through the tunnels, they'd made it a point to keep the wall to their right, not daring to strike out blindly across the larger caverns, and now Booth simply stopped where he stood, lowered the pack, and slid down to the floor.

"It feels good to sit," Bones said, dropping down beside him and turning off the flashlight. She'd been getting better about the light as the day had worn on, less anxious about turning it off as long as he stayed close. He'd made it a point to stay close.

"No kidding. I think I'm wearing holes in my kneecaps."

"I highly doubt it," she said. "It would take much longer—" then, at his quiet snort of amusement, "Oh. You were being metaphorical, weren't you."

Without answering, Booth pulled the pack into his lap and unzipped it, then reached inside and found the package of trail mix. He passed it to her with a wry smile.

"Dinner is served," he said.

"Thank you."

Her hand brushed against his when she reached for the little bag, but slipped away again almost at once. A moment later he heard the packaging tear.

"Give me your hand," she said.

He did, then tried to ignore how it felt when she steadied it with her own hand while she poured some of the fruit and nut mix into his palm.

"It isn't much." There was a note of apology in her voice.

He swallowed a mouthful of peanuts and raisins, then shrugged. "Better than nothing."

"Booth ... Don't you think we should have found a way out by now?"

"Hard to say. I don't have much experience with caves." He was about to pop the last of his trail mix into his mouth when a faint sound caught his attention. "Did you hear that?"

"What?"

"Listen."

The silence stretched until he'd almost convinced himself he was imagining things. Then he heard it again.

"Water," she said, with the first hint of enthusiasm he'd heard from her since the cave-in.

"Sounds like it. But where? These caves are a giant echo chamber."

"Try the other flashlight."

He was already reaching into the pack. "Good idea."

He pulled out the light and got to his feet, aiming the beam in the general direction of the sound they'd heard. When that didn't work, he reached back into the pack for the parachute cord.

"Stay here," he said to her. "And see if you can find something to tie this to." He handed one end of the cord to her, noting the hint of worry that creased her brow. "I'll be able to go farther with the rope," he explained. And if he fell, the rope might save his life.

"You keep saying we need to be careful not to get separated."

There was a faint, uneasy note to her voice, one he doubted she was even aware of. But he heard it, and he knew what it meant. She didn't want to be left alone.

"We're going to have to risk it," he said. "It's better if one of us stays back in case something goes wrong. I won't be far."

There was a brief silence, and he knew she was processing the implications of that before finally giving him a reluctant nod.

He knotted the other end of the cord around his waist, bending and flipping the supple nylon with practiced ease until he had a neat, secure knot. Flashlight in hand, he looked at her.

She'd looped her end of the rope twice around the base of a thick stalagmite and then around her own waist, where she secured it with an expertly knotted bowline and stop knot.

"Impressive," he said. "You know your knots."

"Michael and I used to go rock climbing during school vacations."

Stires. Of course. He seemed the type.

"Ready?" he asked.

She'd settled on the floor with her feet braced against the side of the stalagmite. She wore a grimly determined look on her face, as if daring the fates to dislodge her. He found it oddly adorable. "Ready."

"Which way, do you think?" he asked.

"What?" She blinked up at him.

"You're the scientist, Bones. Which way is the water?"

"Oh." She gave the rope another tug and looked up at him, determination replaced by a kind of helpless frustration. "I ... " She hesitated. "I don't know."

A surge of impotent fury tightened his jaw. _Damn the Gravedigger anyway. And damn the asshole foster parents who locked her in the trunk of a car for two days. To hell with it. Damn every fucking bastard who ever hurt her._

Hoping to distract her, he drew her to her feet, "Shh," he said, letting his hands rest lightly on her shoulders. "Listen."

A few seconds later the sound of dripping water reached them again, and her face cleared. "That way," she said, pointing. "I'm almost certain of it."

"Okay, then. That's where I'll try first." He checked the knot at his waist one last time. "Cross your fingers."

"Why?"

It made him smile, but he didn't answer. Instead he set off, moving slowly. They were on limestone again so the floor was slippery and unpredictable, and more than once he nearly lost his footing, but a fall could mean injury, and in here, under these conditions, an injury for either one of them could mean death for both.

The small pool turned out to be closer than he'd thought it would be, but still well beyond the range of the flashlight beam, making him glad he'd thought to use the rope.

"Got it," he said. He didn't bother raising his voice. One thing about caves: they had great acoustics. "Standing water. Looks like it's dripping down from the ceiling." He headed back her way, setting trail markers as he went. By the time he arrived at her side she was on her feet. They untied the knots, and he tucked the cord back into the pack, then glanced at her face. She looked away, but not before he'd spotted the sheen of moisture in her eyes. _Oh, Bones_.

"Hey, you okay?" He reached out to her, his hand just brushing her arm before she snatched it back.

"I'm fine," she said shortly.

He watched her for a long moment, wishing she would talk to him, or at least look at him. Finally, he sighed.

"You were right," he said. "It's a straight shot that way." He pointed. "Watch out for slick spots."

When they arrived at the pool Booth dropped to a crouch beside it and reached into the pack for the Sterno, flint, and collapsible pot. Then he pulled out the empty bottles and set them to one side.

"Wouldn't it be easier to use the matches?" Brennan asked.

"Maybe, but if you know how to use it, the flint is more reliable."

"And you know how to use it?"

Her skepticism irritated him for an instant, but he brushed it off. Neither of them was exactly at their best right now.

"Ranger training is pretty thorough, Bones." He didn't tell her that a flint like this one had meant the difference between life and death in Guatemala when he'd lost all his gear to a flash flood—and he would have lost the flint, too, if it hadn't been in his pocket. "Have you ever used one?"

"No, it's never come up before." She sounded surprised by that, and he bit back a smile.

"Then I'll teach you, if you're interested. But first—" pulling out his pocket knife, he pried the lid off the can of Sterno fuel and set it aside, then picked up the pot and pulled it into shape. It looked like it would hold about eight ounces, small but better than nothing. "We need to figure out how to suspend this thing above the fire without burning ourselves."

She considered for a moment, then started gathering rocks. "A stone oven," she said, "with three sides."

While Bones worked, Booth checked out the pool of water. It looked clear, but that didn't mean anything. Even clear water could harbor deadly bacteria. He bent and filled the small pot. The water was cold, which meant it would take longer to boil, and they only had one can of Sterno. They'd have to go with the minimums.

"Done," Bones said behind him.

He moved back to her side. The small stone structure was just big enough to enclose the can of fuel, and she'd positioned the blade of the machete above it to act as a cook surface.

"We'll stack more rocks here—" She pointed. "—to support the other the end of the parang so the structure stays in balance."

Booth nodded and crouched beside her to pick up the flint. Then he pulled out his pocket knife and opened one of the larger blades. "Hold it like this," he said, adjusting the flint in his left hand. "The key to getting a good spark is in the angle and strength of your strike," he went on. "Make sure you have a solid grip on both the knife and the flint. Then press the knife blade against the flint at about a forty-five degree angle."

He gave an experimental flick of his wrist, nodding in satisfaction when a number of sparks leapt off the flint. "It takes some practice."

"It doesn't _look_ difficult," she said dismissively. "Let me try."

"It's harder than it seems." He handed over the knife and flint, then watched her bend over the task with the same intense concentration she applied to everything else. But if he'd harbored any thought that she would give up after a few unsuccessful attempts, she soon proved him wrong, striking the flint over and over again with increasing frustration.

"Why don't you let me light the Sterno," he finally said, "then you can keep practicing while I start heating the water."

"I can do this, Booth." She tried again, and cursed when a single faint spark floated anemically to the cavern floor.

He loved her determination, but they really needed water. Plus, the delay in getting the Sterno lit was running down their flashlight batteries.

"I tell you what," he said. "Why don't we light it together?"

She paused, glanced over at him, and gave a reluctant nod. "That would be acceptable."

Booth sat down with his back against a stalagmite and spread his legs out in front of him. He wasn't sure how she would react to what he was about to suggest, but it was the easiest way he could think of to demonstrate the process. This wasn't like working with a group of recruits who had reserves of both time and light. This was a real survival situation, and they couldn't afford to squander resources.

"Come over here," he said.

"Where?"

"Here." He tapped the floor. "I need you to sit in front of me."

"Oh." She eyed him doubtfully. "Can't you just lean over here?"

"It'll be easier this way. Trust me."

"I don't know ..."

"Bones. Come on." He understood her doubts. Hell, he wasn't too sure about this himself. But if she was serious about wanting to learn she was going to have to bend a little.

After another moment's hesitation she did as he asked, spreading her legs along the inside of his and setting the can of Sterno on the floor in front of her. But she was tense, making it hard to maneuver.

"Relax," he said softly. "I'll just show you how it works. I promise. As soon as we get it lit you can go practice somewhere else if you want."

He felt her take a deep breath, and some of the tension left her body.

"I'm sorry," she said, and he heard the frustration in her voice. "I don't know what's wrong with me."

He did, but there was no way he was going to try to explain. Sweets could have done it, though. Sweets could get her to listen to just about anything, even if she did hate psychology.

He leaned in and eased his arms around her, sending a silent word of gratitude heavenward when she didn't immediately tense up again.

"Okay," he said, taking her left hand in his. "Angle the flint down toward the can of Sterno, but a little behind it." He showed her what he meant. "Now—" He reached for her right hand. "Turn your wrist like so." He adjusted her hold on the knife and its angle against the flint. "Ready?"

She took a breath, her shoulders shifting against him. "Ready."

With an expert flick of his wrists, Booth sent a shower of sparks flying off the end of the flint. The Sterno caught, flared, and settled into a steady burn.

"We did it!" Her excitement was contagious, her enthusiasm almost childlike. "Booth! We did it!"

He smiled against her neck and let go of her hands so that he could put away the tools and turn off the flashlight. "Sure did."

"You were right," she said. "I had the angle wrong. It shouldn't be forty-five degrees at all. Forty-seven degrees is much more effective. Also, a productive strike requires much more force than I'd anticipated."

He'd expected her to move out of his arms as soon as the Sterno was lit, and she did, but only long enough to nudge the can into the makeshift oven. Then she balanced the pot of water on the blade of the knife, set it to heat, and leaned back against him.

Surprised, he bit back the question that rose to his lips.

"Nice job," he said instead, and tried not to think too much about how good it felt to have her so close, because as soon as he did that his body would react and things would get awkward again. He distracted himself with a silent recitation of the first decade of the rosary and tried not to be too obvious about the fact that he had no idea what to do with his hands. Eventually he threw caution to the winds and wrapped his arms around her waist, linking his fingers over her stomach. When she didn't pull away, he relaxed.

"We make a pretty good team," he said, his eyes on the burning Sterno and his thoughts on the pressure of her back against his chest.

"We make an excellent team, Booth." She said it the same way she might say that two plus two equaled four. "That's why we have the highest solve rate in the Bureau."

"Had," he corrected.

She twisted around to look up at him. "What have you heard?" she asked. "Has somebody surpassed our record?"

"I haven't heard anything, but it's been six months, Bones. And the FBI has some of the finest investigative teams in the world."

"Well, they don't have us." She turned back around. "And we're the best."

He couldn't help a quiet laugh. When he'd first met Dr. Temperance Brennan, he'd thought her the most arrogant woman he'd ever worked with, and by the end of that first case he'd sworn he would never work with her again. Now he knew that what he'd called arrogance was a simple statement of fact, and the thought of working with anybody else filled him with dread. Life certainly was strange.

"What's so funny?" she asked.

"You are." He tucked his lingering amusement away in her hair and fought the urge to draw her closer.

"I don't understand." Her voice held that tone of blank confusion that usually accompanied a tilt of her head and a faint, puzzled smile.

"No," he said, "you wouldn't."

"Then you should explain it to me," she said emphatically, "so I can laugh, too."

"Another time, Bones." She wouldn't really understand anyway, and besides, all he really wanted to do was hold her for a little while.

Apparently accepting his response, she relaxed, her back settling against his chest like it was meant to be there. And maybe it was. He still believed in destiny, even if she didn't. This year apart was a test, that was all—God's way of making sure they were ready for the next step. He'd sent them down here, alone and with only rudimentary survival gear, to see what they would do, and deep down Booth knew, he just _knew_ , that they would make it out alive.

Bones stirred against him, her hair tickling his chin. "I'd give anything for a bath," she murmured.

He dug in his pocket for his bandanna, offering it to her. "Use this," he said, "and some of that water once it cools. You can at least wash off some of the grit."

"No. Booth, we need that water for drinking."

Ignoring the voice in his head that told him she was right, he shook his head. "We can boil more. It doesn't take long. In fact that first batch is probably boiling now."

Bones turned on the flashlight and scooted forward to check. "You're right, it is." She turned back around to look at him. "But shouldn't we let it boil for ten minutes?"

"Two problems with that," he said. "First, a lot of that water will boil away in ten minutes' time. And second, we don't have enough fuel to be picky. We need to be as efficient as we can with what we have."

She gave him a dubious glance. "But will it be safe to drink?"

Booth sighed. "I'm going to go out on a limb here and assume you've never had this conversation with Hodgins."

"Why would I?"

"Right." He watched her fold the bandanna into a makeshift potholder and use it to lift the pot away from the heat, pleased that she trusted his word enough not to wait for his explanation. "What's the boiling point of water?"

"One hundred degrees Centigrade," she said promptly.

"Come on, Bones. Give an old soldier a break." He didn't know the numbers in metric terms, and he wasn't about to try to do the conversions in his head. "What is it in Fahrenheit?"

"You're not that old." Her indignation came through loud and clear, despite the darkness.

He shook his head. "Thanks. But not really my point."

"Oh. Two hundred and twelve degrees."

"At a hundred and sixty degrees, it takes half an hour to kill all the pathogens. But that's still fifty-two degrees shy of boiling," he said, the numbers as familiar to him as the words of the Miranda warning. "At a hundred and eighty-five degrees, it only takes a few minutes. And you've still got twenty-seven degrees to go."

"So by the time the water boils ..."

"Pretty much everything's dead, especially if you wait for a good rolling boil."

She eyed him from where she'd bent to refill the pot. "You're really good at this stuff."

Sometimes she acted like the only knowledge that mattered was her knowledge. "I've had some experience, Bones. Remember?"

The flashlight beam shifted as she searched out his face in the darkness. "Will you tell me about it sometime?"

They'd rarely talked about his past, partially because it wasn't pretty, but also because she'd never really seemed to care. Now Booth wondered if he'd misinterpreted her silence. Maybe what he'd read as lack of interest had really been her version of compassion.

"I'll tell you anything you want to know," he said seriously. "All you ever have to do is ask."

"But some memories can be unpleasant. I don't want to make you uncomfortable."

"This is me, Bones. It's us. Remember? No secrets?"

"We did say that, didn't we."

"Yes, we did. And I meant it, all right? Anything at all."

He knew she had difficulty believing she could tell him anything, and that he would have to keep repeating himself, maybe for years to come. But that was a small price to pay for the kind of relationship he wanted with her.

"You might want to get that on the fire," he said, changing the subject. "It's going to take a while to get both bottles filled."

She was already balancing the little pot on the knife, and a moment later the next batch of water was heating. She returned to her spot in front of him and turned off the flashlight.

"It's very unpleasant down here," she said, apparently oblivious to the effect she was having on him as she tried to find a comfortable position. "I hate how dark it is, and I worry that one of us will get hurt." She hesitated before going on in a softer voice. "But it helps that you're here, too."

He tightened his arms around her waist and rested his chin on her shoulder. "That's good to know."

When the first bottle had been filled and they'd started heating water for the second one, Bones moistened the bandanna.

"Careful," he warned her. "Once that cotton gets wet the heat will go right through it."

"I know," she said. "Water is highly conductive." But she didn't sound annoyed like she usually did when he told her things she already knew. "I'll fold it over an extra time or two to compensate."

She offered him the bandanna, but he shook his head. "You go ahead."

Watching her wipe the grit from her skin, her body silhouetted by the flickering Sterno flame, made his chest ache, and he had to occupy his hands with the survival gear lest he be tempted to help.

"You're growing a beard," she said suddenly.

He looked over at her with a faint smile. "Somebody forgot to put a razor in the survival pack."

"No, I like it." She reached out, and when her hand brushed against his cheek he closed his eyes despite himself. "It's very masculine."

His laugh surprised them both, and she drew her hand away.

"Give it a few days," he said. "Pretty soon I'll be a regular Grizzly Adams."

She tilted her head. "I don't know who that is."

"Grizzly Adams? Mountain man?"

"No. Is he famous?"

"I don't know that you'd call him famous. He was a character on a TV show in the 70s.  
When we get back to the States I'll see if I can track down a copy of one of the movies so you can see what I mean."

"I thought you said he was a character in a television show."

"There were movies, too. And books."

"Oh." She moistened the bandanna again and lifted her hair to scrub at the back of her neck. "Yes. I would very much like to watch a movie with you."

"Here," he said, abruptly changing his mind about helping her. "Let me." He took the bandanna from her and waited while she pulled her hair out of the way.

With the flashlight off he could almost pretend he was working by candlelight. He itched to linger over the supple curve of her neck and the sweet dip of her shoulder, but he didn't want to spook her. So instead he tightened his jaw and fought to remain impassive. It was with undeniable relief that he finished the simple task and gave the bandanna back to her.

"Thank you," she said.

"You're welcome." He busied himself setting fresh water to boil and trying to ignore the weight of her stare.

He heard her uncap one of the bottles of water, and then a few seconds later, cap it again.

"Here," she said, pressing the bandanna into his hand when he hesitated. "We shouldn't waste the water, remember? Besides, you'll feel better afterward."

With a sigh, he took it from her. It did feel good to scrub some of the grime off his skin, and he'd been in survival situations often enough to know that sometimes it all came down to morale. When he finished, he set the folded bandanna on the floor where it would be close to hand when the next batch of water was ready.

"Thanks," he said.

"You're welcome." She lifted the two water bottles and shook them lightly. "They're just about full," she said.

"Yeah. I think this is the last batch." He gestured toward the makeshift oven, then hit the button to activate the light on his watch so he could check the time. "What do you say we stay here tonight?"

Her faint shrug, barely visible in the darkness, was eloquent. She wasn't happy about spending another night underground.

"I suppose here is as good a place as any," she said.

When the last of the water came to a boil Bones poured it into a bottle while Booth blew out the Sterno flame. The can would need time to cool—another good reason to camp here. He clicked the flashlight back on, and they each had a few sips of water.

"It's not bad," Bones said, passing the bottle to him.

He sipped. "It's wet," was his only comment as he capped the bottle and tucked it into the worn canvas bag. Setting the pack aside, he leaned against the stalagmite and watched Bones eye the limestone floor.

"Shoulder's still free," he offered, taking pity on her.

She aimed a doubtful look in his direction. "Are you sure?" she asked.

"I'm sure." He opened his arms to her. "At least this way maybe one of us can get some sleep."

"Won't it hurt your back to sit up all night?"

"My back already hurts," he said. "And sleeping on the floor isn't going to make it hurt any less."

She still looked uncertain, but at least she'd moved a few inches closer.

"Don't be stubborn." He did his best to look more like a teddy bear and less like a man who would do anything just to hold her.

He was steeling himself against disappointment when she scooted over and curled up against him, turning off the flashlight without his having to remind her.

"Today was a very difficult day," she said. "You need your rest, and maybe this way you won't have nightmares."

He wondered if she realized that she was rationalizing her decision to join him, then decided it didn't matter. She was right. He would rest better with her close.

It took them a few seconds to find positions that were, if not exactly comfortable, at least bearable. Her head ended up resting in the hollow of his shoulder, and her arms settled around his waist as his came to rest across her shoulders. Her hair was badly tangled and knotted after a day and a half in the tunnels, and he reached up absently to comb his fingers through it, letting the strands slide between his fingers to settle back against her neck.

"I like your hair this way," he murmured. "It suits you."

She yawned. "It's easier to take care of when it's shorter," she said. "It's also cooler."

"Yes," he said. "I did notice that it gets a little warm here."

Her laugh whispered through the cavern. "And it doesn't get warm in Afghanistan?"

"It does," he said, as he worked the last of the knots out of her hair, "but it isn't quite so much like trying to breathe underwater."

"At least there aren't any scorpions here," she challenged.

"They don't have tarantulas the size of dinner plates in Afghanistan," he fired back.

"We don't have suicide bombers." There was faint unease in her voice, even half a world away from the fighting.

"I didn't run into too many of those," he said, trying to sound reassuring.

"No. Just IEDs and insurgents with automatic weapons."

"And bad aim," he said. "And no earthquakes."

"That's incorrect." Her fingers plotted a random and thoroughly distracting pattern across his rib cage. "In March of last year an earthquake hit Kabul."

"I wasn't even there, then. And besides, it was a little one," he said. "Magnitude five point ... something. Ask any Californian. It barely even counts."

She snorted through another yawn. "I imagine the Afghani people would disagree with that assessment."

He smiled, his arms tightening around her. "Go to sleep, Bones."

"Yes," she said. "I think that's a very good suggestion."

He pressed a kiss against the top of her head, but it was so gentle that if she needed to she could believe she'd imagined it. Then he tipped his head back against the pillar and closed his eyes.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter may be triggering for those people with claustrophobia or anxiety issues.

  
Awareness arrived with a dull, throbbing ache in her hip and the gradual realization that she was lying on a hard surface with Booth's arms wrapped around her. His closeness should've alarmed her. Instead she found it reassuring.

Then she opened her eyes. Impenetrable darkness bore down on her, constricting her chest and jump-starting her pulse. Restless and uneasy, she sat up and felt around for the flashlight, her hands shaking as they fumbled over the rocks.

"Easy, Bones. It's okay. I'm right here."

It was what he always said. _Easy, Bones_. As if he was calming a skittish horse. She resented that, not because he said it, but because it meant she'd failed to conceal her fear.

"I'm fine. I just can't find the damned flashlight." She hated this, hated feeling jumpy and worried all the time. She wanted out of here. She'd be okay after that. She just. Wanted. Out.

When Booth finally turned the flashlight on its beam was frighteningly weak, no match for the skulking shadows. He held it out to her, releasing it to her too-desperate hand without comment. She knew what he was thinking, though. The weight of his concern was all but palpable. Grimly, she reminded herself that she didn't need it _or_ him. She was fine on her own. Fine, damn it.

She stood up and brushed off her pants with fingers that still trembled, though she was feeling calmer now that they had some light.

"We should get going. These batteries aren't going to last much longer," she said, willing her voice steady. Not waiting for him to get up, she reached for the pack and shrugged into it, then bent to pick up the parang.

"Bones, wait."

"What?" She spun back, resenting the delay, but he only waved toward the makeshift oven she'd built the night before.

"The Sterno," he said, his voice giving little indication of his thoughts.

"Oh."

She dropped to her knees and reached for the can, then looked around for its lid.

"Here." He held it out to her.

"Thanks."

She fit it onto the can and tapped it into place with the handle of the parang, still aware of Booth's gaze but doing her best to ignore it. Then while she unzipped the pack and dropped the half-empty can inside he scattered the rocks she'd used to build the stove.

"Why are you doing that?" she asked, and swallowed when her voice came out high and tight.

"Because if anybody comes looking for us I want them to follow our original trail and not get sidetracked down here," he said. "There's no sense in making the rescue team's job any harder than it has to be."

She shook her head, speaking slowly, forcing a patience she didn't feel. "There isn't going to be any rescue, Booth."

She couldn't have said why she was so certain—maybe it was because of the number of aftershocks they'd felt or the amount of time they'd been wandering around down here—but it didn't really matter. The flashlights were almost done for. In a few hours they'd be reduced to feeling their way around on their hands and knees. And after that...

"We should get moving," she said.

"Right behind you, Bones."

They continued their careful progress through the tunnels, but now their steps were shadowed by rising desperation. They didn't stop for water, preferring to keep moving, and as the minutes passed and the flashlight beam grew dimmer and dimmer it became increasingly hard to focus. Three times she almost fell, and only Booth's steady hand kept her from twisting an ankle or worse. Sounds—the drip of water, the rattle of shifting gravel, even the scuff of their shoes against the stone—beat against her skull and made her want to press her hands against her ears. And every time Booth paused to mark their trail she chafed against the wait, her fingers drumming impatiently against her thighs or fidgeting with the straps of the survival pack until he was ready to move on again.

When the first flashlight finally went out she sank to the ground, trembling and covered in cold sweat. Fingers curled against the rock, she struggled to force air into a throat made thick with fear. Instantly Booth was beside her. He said something, but she couldn't make out the words, only the distant echo of his voice. And when he reached for her hand she struck out in blind panic. But he only caught her arm and pulled her body hard against his, still talking.

She couldn't have said how long it took for the trembling to ease, but eventually she became aware of the press of stone against her knees and the feel of his arms around her back. He was painting slow circles along her spine. Around ... and around ... and around. The consistency calmed her. The connection reassured her. She wasn't alone. She repeated that in her head like a mantra as she fought for control. She wasn't alone. Booth was with her. Booth. was. with. her.

Gradually her breathing slowed and the pounding in her ears subsided to a dull, aching throb, but she made no move to pull away from him. His voice continued to vibrate through his chest and into her ear, calm and soothing.

"I've got you," he said. "I've got you, baby. I'm here."

He smelled of dust and sweat and Booth. There was comfort in that, as well as in the fiercely protective way he held her. She sank into him, her arms finding their way around his back as she clung to his familiar strength.

"I'm okay," she finally managed through lips still dry with fear. "I just ... It's so dark."

"I know."

She felt the press of his lips against the top of her head and couldn't bring herself to object. His grip on her eased, and though he kept his hands on her shoulders she sensed him moving back, giving her space. She drew in a cautious breath and felt oxygen flow into her system. Then his hands were gone, too, but she still felt his presence, even in the darkness. She heard him doing something, and a moment later he reached for her arm, feeling his way down to her wrist. Instinctively, she tensed.

"What are you doing?"

His touch was gentle, but firm. He didn't let her go.

"Just trust me here, okay, Bones?"

She relaxed and let herself rest against him again, unsurprised when he took her weight without having to adjust his balance. She felt him fit something around her wrist.

"There," he said after a moment. "Now give me your other hand."

It was his watch. Its bulky weight pressed into her skin when he fastened it, and some of his body heat lingered in the leather band. She found it with her right hand, her fingers tracing its face in the darkness.

"Why are you giving me this?"

"Because of this," he said. And taking her right hand in his, he pressed her finger to one side of the face. It lit up, the blue LED startlingly bright in the fierce darkness. "It isn't enough to travel by," he went on, his fingers lingering over hers, "but maybe it'll help a little."

The thoughtful gesture brought tears to her eyes. She laced her fingers through his. "Thank you," she said.

He squeezed her hand. "You're welcome." There was a depth of emotion in his voice that she didn't dare examine too closely. For now it was enough that he was here. They stayed that way for a minute or two before Booth sniffed loudly. "God, what is that smell?"

She hadn't noticed it before, too caught up in her anxiety to pay much attention to their surroundings. But now she inhaled deeply, then exhaled on a surprised cough.

"Ammonia," she said, recognizing it instantly. And then ... "Wait." She thought back, frantically searching her memory for something Hodgins had once said. "Bats!"

"Bats." Booth's reaction was decidedly unenthusiastic.

Brennan yanked the pack from her shoulders and felt for the zipper, tugging until it gave way beneath her impatient fingers. "Bat guano has a high concentration of ammonia, and if there's a colony nearby ..."

"Then we're close to a way out," he said, following her train of thought.

"Maybe." She shoved the dead flashlight into the pack, then felt around until her fingers closed over their backup. It, too, was almost used up, but if they were lucky it would give them enough light to locate the colony. "Come on."

She didn't notice the darkness now, too caught up in following her nose to think much about where they were or how desperate their circumstances had become. Behind her, Booth scrambled to keep up, once even calling out to her to "for God's sake, Bones, slow down before you get us both killed!" But she ignored him, trusting to instinct and the burning in her nose and eyes for guidance.

All at once the tunnel they'd been in, tall enough to stand in but so narrow they had to scoot through it sideways, dumped them out into a cavern that just ... felt big. The sound of their abrupt arrival bounced back at her from all sides, and she could neither touch the opposite wall nor find it with the weak beam of the flashlight. But when she shone the light at the floor she found it covered with droppings.

Booth stumbled to a stop behind her, one hand on her shoulder. "What is it?"

"Shh," she said, keeping her voice low. "We should do our best not to disturb them."

He moved up beside her, but didn't drop his hand. "I don't see anything."

"Ceiling's too high," she whispered. "Look down."

His quiet grunt of disgust brought a smile to her face. "Okay," he said, "so we found bats. Now what?"

"Now we find their front door."

"Front door?" He sounded amused. "Do you think they have a doorbell, too? Maybe even a welcome mat?"

But she was in too good a mood now to rise to his bait, so she just rolled her eyes and tilted her head. "There isn't enough light in here to see much, so we'll have to rely on our olfactory senses."

"Geez, Bones. Why not just say we have to sniff our way out?"

"Fine, then. We'll have to sniff our way out."

She ignored his chuckle and concentrated on trying to find a hint of fresh air beyond the acrid smell of ammonia. Her eyes watered, and her lungs burned, but she ignored that, too. She couldn't give up now. She wouldn't. Not when they were so close.

Then she smelled it. Faint, but clear. The first fresh air she'd inhaled in three days.

"There," she said, at the same time he said, "Got it."

She turned toward his voice, and she was pretty sure his smile was as wide as hers, even though she couldn't see it. They inched along the wall and around a bend, and just as the flashlight beam gave up its last she spied sunlight.

The opening was high, and barely large enough for them to squeeze through, but when she felt the moist island air on her face she took a deep, grateful breath.

"See?" Booth's voice at her side was soft but triumphant. "I told you we'd make it."

She glanced in his direction. "You couldn't have known this was here."

"There are different kinds of knowing, Bones."

The temptation to argue the point was strong, but her desire for freedom was stronger.

"How do we get up there?" she asked instead.

"Easy. I'll give you a boost."

"What about you?" She touched his arm. "I'm not leaving here without you, Booth. Not even to go for help."

His hand found hers, squeezed. "Let's get you out of here," he said. "Then see what happens, okay?"

"The rope," she said, remembering. "I can tie it to something and lower it down to you."

"There. See? Problem solved. Now come on." He tugged at her arm. "Let's get out of this hell-hole."

"That's an inaccurate descriptor." She was feeling more like herself now that freedom was in sight. "Most myths, even in the Bible, describe hell as a very hot and unpleasant place."

"And this place hasn't been unpleasant?"  
"Yes. Certainly. But it isn't particularly hot. In fact, I've found the temperature to be quite pleasant."

"Caves, Bones. Their internal temperature usually hovers within a few degrees of the average outside temperature. Besides, didn't you say that some of these tunnels were the result of volcanic activity?"

"Yes, but—"

"Well there you go. Last I heard, volcanoes were pretty hellish places."

They were standing just below the opening, and now Booth bent and laced his fingers together. "Alleyoop, Bones."

"Alley ... what?"

"Alleyoop." He looked up at her. "It means up you go."

"Oh." She took the rope out of the pack and hung it around her neck, then leaned the pack and parang against the wall, well clear of the nearest bat droppings. That done, she put her foot in his cupped hands and her hands on his shoulders. "Ready?"

"Whenever you are."

"Go."

She vaulted upwards at the same time he lifted, and an instant later her head and shoulders burst through the hole. She caught herself on the edge and pulled, grabbing at roots, the ground, anything to keep from sliding back down. Seconds later she'd hauled herself out.

In instant, she'd rolled to her feet and unloosed the rope from around her neck, already looking for something to tie it to. Discarding a nearby stand of immature bamboo as too flimsy, she settled instead on a tall, slender palm. She gave the rope a quick double wrap around the trunk, tied it off, and crossed back to the hole with the other end.

"Watch out," she said. "Here comes the rope."

"Let 'er rip."

She let it down, then dropped to her stomach beside the hole. He sent up the pack and parang first, since his shoulders would already be a tight fit. She untied the gear, set it aside, and passed the rope back down to Booth.

"All right," he said, "I'm coming up."

Behind her, the tree creaked against his weight, and Bones threw it a quick glance before returning her attention to Booth. He was very strong. She'd always known that, of course, but she didn't often have the pleasure of watching him apply his strength to this type of task.

He climbed quickly, hand over hand, and in another instant she was reaching down to him, doing her best to help. Then he was out and lying beside her on the ground, and for no apparent reason, they were both laughing. Booth got to his feet, still grinning, and pulled her up with him. But as they looked around, their smiles faded.

"Out of the frying pan ..." Booth murmured under his breath.

"And into the fire," she finished, because not only was she familiar with that particular idiomatic phrase, but it also seemed eminently applicable to the current situation.

There was no sign of either the ocean—which would have allowed them to follow the coast back to camp—or the trail they'd taken to reach the cave three days ago. Instead they were standing on the side of a steep hill. Thick forest rolled away from them on all sides, and when they looked up, there was no sky, just a thick canopy of leaves. Before they could do much more than exchange glances they heard a rumble of thunder followed by the sound of raindrops splashing into the treetops.

"Shelter," they said together, and traded tired grins.

"Great minds think alike." Booth blew out a breath and reached for the parang.

"No, it isn't great minds at all. It's just a rational response to the situation."

"Right, Bones." He used the parang as a makeshift ax, hacking into a stand of bamboo with ruthless efficiency. "Why don't you see about finding something we can use for lashings?"

It took them almost two hours to assemble a simple bamboo lean-to roofed with palm fronds. Crudely built and held together with lengths of jungle vine, it wouldn't win them any design awards, but it would protect them from the rain. While Booth tied on the last of the palm fronds, Brennan used the rain poncho and collapsible pot to set up a water catcher, hoping to replenish their supply. Despite the rain, she found herself enjoying the work. It felt good to contribute something meaningful to their survival, and to do it without a haze of anxiety clouding her thoughts.

As soon as the shelter was up they set about collecting firewood. Most of what they found was either green or damp, but they managed to collect enough tinder and dry bamboo to establish a good bed of coals. Once they had that they could add wet wood if they had to without fear of putting out the fire.

They were soaked to the skin by the time they'd finished, and it was with a feeling of satisfaction that Brennan crawled into the lean-to after Booth. They worked together getting the fire started, but she let him light it, too tired by then to go another round with the recalcitrant flint.

"I don't know about you," Booth said, finally sitting back, "but I'm starving."

Brennan reached into the pack. "I think we should celebrate."

She pulled out the granola bars and handed him one, keeping the other for herself. She also retrieved one of their bottles of water.

"Peanut butter," he said, reading the label. "Normally I'm not too fond of the stuff, but right now ..."

"I know." Peeling back the wrapper of her own bar, Bones held it to her nose and sniffed. Her stomach rumbled, and she flashed a quick grin at Booth. "This is going to be good."

He took a small bite of his own bar, chewed slowly, and swallowed. "Oh, yeah," he said. "It's good."

"Better than one of Gordon Gordon's specialties?" Bones asked, taking a bite of her own bar.

"You mean that sperm on corn smut stuff?" He wrinkled his nose. "Oh, yeah."

They took their time over the simple meal, washing it down with sips of water. Finished, Bones held out her hand.

"What?"

"Your wrapper," she said. "I want to put it back in the bag before I forget."

"I didn't know you were one of those," he said. But he handed over the paper nonetheless.

By the tone of his voice, she thought it likely that he was teasing her, but she wasn't sure why.

"One of what?" she asked, tucking the used wrappers into a zippered inside pocket.

"An eco-warrior."

She shook her head. " _You're_ the soldier."

" _Eco-_ warrior," he said. "You know, one of those people who chains themselves to trees to keep people from cutting them down."

"Oh. Well. I've never done that." She added a piece of wood to the fire. "Though I will agree that there are times when commercial industries seem to take an unnecessarily cavalier attitude toward the environment."

"Cavalier, Bones? Seriously?"

"What? It's a perfectly good word."

Shaking his head, he gestured. "Give me your foot."

Instinctively, she tucked it underneath her body. "Why?"

"Shoes," he said. "We need to get them dry."

"Oh." Then, "I can do it myself." She wasn't a two-year-old, and she wasn't incapacitated by fear anymore, either.

But he only sighed. "Did I say you couldn't?"  
Reluctantly, she untangled her legs and watched him bend his head over the laces, his nimble fingers working at the knots. _What would those fingers feel like against her bare skin? Were they as good at other tasks as they were at this one?_ Biting her lip, she forced the errant thoughts away as he peeled both shoe and sock off her foot and laid them out near the fire to dry. He repeated the task with her other foot.

"Wait," she said, remembering. "I need to check on the rain catcher."

"I'll do it. Stay put."

He was up and gone before she could respond, returning a moment later with the small pot almost brim full of water. She took it from him, emptied it into one of their water bottles, and handed it back. Then she added another stick of wood to the fire while he reset the rain catcher. When he came back, she pointed at his feet.

"Your turn," she said.

"For what?"

"Your shoes are wet, too, and since you helped me, it seems only fair that I should help you in return."

"Well, when you put it like that," He flashed a grin and extended his leg toward her.

She set to work, biting her lip as she struggled to untangle the wet laces. When the knot finally gave way she glanced up in triumph and caught him staring at her with something like yearning in his eyes. Her breath snagged in her throat, her fingers stilling against the laces.

"Booth ..."

He blinked, shook his head, and when he opened his eyes again the look was gone. "You done with that yet, Bones? My toes are getting all pruney."

Relieved, she grinned. "I don't think that's a real word."

"You know what it means, though, right?"

"Of course I do. But what you refer to as _pruney_ —" She hesitated over the word. She'd always harbored a deep dislike for inaccurate language. "—is actually the result of simple diffusion of water across cell membranes."

"Pruney sounds cooler."

"But it's inaccurate," she insisted.

"So when Parker asks you why his fingers get pruney when he takes a bath ..."

"I'll tell him the truth, of course."

"You're going to explain diffusion to a ten year old." He sounded skeptical.

"It isn't a difficult concept to master," she said. "I was studying the process of photosynthesis at Parker's age." She considered the problem for a moment. Then, "But if you would prefer, I can have my dad explain it. He's very good with children."

"So are you." Leaning forward, Booth poked at the fire.

Flattered, she smiled at him. "That's very kind of you to say."

"Hey, I've seen you with Parker. You're amazing." He glanced at her, then away again. "Most people talk to kids like they're these little aliens or something. You don't do that. You talk to him like he's a real person. He appreciates that." He checked the shoes and turned the socks over, moving them a little closer to the heat. "So do I."

She didn't know what to say to that, so she didn't say anything at all.

"It's getting late," Booth said, adding another stick of wood to the fire. "We should get some sleep."

"What about our shoes?"

"They'll be fine. Just make sure you check them for stowaways before you put them on in the morning." He passed her the bottle of insect repellent. "You might want to put on some of this, though."

She did, making sure she put some on her feet, too. Then she passed it back to him. "You need to put some on, too."

He'd been poking at the fire again, banking it for the night, but he nodded and took the bottle. "I will."

"It's going to be tight sleeping in here," he said a few minutes later as he tucked the lotion back into the pack. "Sorry about that."

"No, I understand. There wasn't time to make the shelter bigger."

"Right." He hesitated, watching her. "Bones ... There's only one way this is going to work."

She studied the structure for a moment, considering. "Yes," she said, trying not to dwell on the implications. "We'll have to spoon up."

He gave her a look of amused surprise. It puzzled her.

"What?"

"Nothing. I just didn't know you knew that word, is all."

"It's a common term," she said, taking refuge in fact. "And though it isn't usually my preferred position, I understand that in this situation it will provide the most efficient use of limited space."

Without saying anything else, Booth curled up at the back corner of the lean-to, his left shoulder brushing against the shallow roof. She watched him adjust the pack under his head. Settled, he stretched out his right arm.

"All right, then. Come on."

Despite her conviction that spooning was the only logical response to the size of the shelter, Brennan felt a dangerous frisson of awareness at the thought of being so close to him in the confined space. "You want me to use your arm for a pillow?"

He shrugged. "Best I've got to offer, I'm afraid."

"But the weight of my head will restrict your circulation." She was aware that she was stalling, but she couldn't seem to help herself. In the cave there'd been the distraction of her anxiety. Here ...

"It's fine, Bones."

He was growing impatient with her. Swallowing her unease, she lay down, her back against his chest, her legs curled around his. His left arm settled around her waist, and she fought the urge to relax into him, frustrated by her body's apparent determination to undermine her decision not to pursue a sexual relationship with him. It was just chemistry, she reminded herself. The man emitted powerful pheromones, that was all. She forced her mind to focus on something other than how easy it would be to roll over and find his lips with hers.

Beyond their little fire the world faded to darkness, but it was a different kind of darkness than the one they'd experienced in the caves, less absolute. Instead of layers of rock shielding her from the sky there were only thick, gray clouds, so that the darkness that had felt oppressive and stifling inside felt peaceful out here, despite the incessant whine of insects. She couldn't explain the difference in scientific terms. It simply was.

She rolled over, careful not to put her foot in the fire. Booth grunted when her knee made accidental contact with his thigh.

"Do you mind telling me what you're trying to do here, Bones?"

She shifted her head on his arm and felt his muscles flex beneath her cheek. "I need to talk to you."

"And you couldn't do that where you were?" He reached down to rub the offended thigh.

"No." Firelight played along the planes and angles of his face, distracting her. "Because you taught me about eye contact."

His gaze sharpened. "And what you're about to say requires eye contact."

"Yes. Absolutely." She shifted again, trying to get comfortable.

"Okay, so," he prompted, when she settled. "You're here. What's up?"

She swallowed. Now that the moment had arrived she couldn't get the words to order themselves properly in her mind. She shifted again and ended up resting her hand against the hollow of his shoulder. Muscle rippled beneath her fingertips. She suppressed the urge to press her fingers into it.

"Angela was correct in her assessment," she said at last, pushing the words out quickly before she could change her mind.

He looked perplexed. "We're lost in the woods on a god-forsaken island in the middle of nowhere, and you want to talk about Angela."

She didn't understand how being lost had anything to do with it, but she nodded anyway. "Yes."

"Okay, then. Angela it is. What was she right about?"

"When I told her why I was coming here she asked me if I'd talked to you about it."

Booth grew very still. "What you told me," he said warily, "was that you'd been offered the position, and you wanted to take it."

"I know." It had been the safe thing to tell him, and truthful in itself, but it wasn't the entire truth, and keeping the rest of it from him had come to feel more and more like a kind of dishonesty.

"So ... You're saying there was more to it than that?"

She nodded. "And I've decided that it's important for you to know."

"Why?"

"Because it matters to me what you think." _He_ mattered to her. Too much. And therein lay the real problem. When it came to him, she cared too much. Felt too much.

"So it wasn't just because you were excited about the work?"

"I was very excited about the work, yes. But that wasn't the only reason I accepted the position." She hated that she was so bad at this. But not telling him was lying by omission, and since they'd promised that they would always be honest with each other her failure to do so had caused her a great deal of unease over the last six months. She needed to tell him now, if only to assuage the feelings of guilt that had nagged at her since that day in the park.

"I was worried, Booth."

"About?"

"You ... Us ..." She took a breath. Let it out with a faint, self-conscious shrug. "All of it." With that she gave in to the urge to press her fingers into his shoulder, just a little, just enough to feel the muscle shift at her touch. "Mostly you."

Behind her, something shifted in the fire, sending up a shower of sparks that cast his features into sharp relief. There was a softness in his eyes, a tenderness that made her feel strangely shy.

"I couldn't stop thinking about what I would do if something happened to you," she said. "It was keeping me awake at night ... interfering with my work ..." She dropped her eyes, unable to hold his gaze anymore. "I had to get some perspective."

He was quiet for so long that Brennan began to wonder if he was going to respond.

"So you came here to get away from me," he said at last. The sadness in his voice drew her eyes back to his as she hurried to correct him.

"No," she said. "No. I just felt like I couldn't be objective anymore. About anything."

"And did it work?" he asked. "Coming here, I mean. Did it make you worry less?"

"No, not at all. And I don't understand why. I still worry about you. All the time. Only instead of thinking you'll get hurt on a case, I'm having nightmares about suicide bombers and insurgents with automatic weapons."

He brushed a strand of hair off her forehead with fingers that seemed impossibly gentle. "Would it help if I said that I worried about you, too?"

"There are no suicide bombers in the Maluku Islands, Booth."

"No, just giant tarantulas, disease carrying mosquitoes, and active volcanoes." He smiled faintly. "And I won't even mention the cave-ins."

"You just did."

"Bones ..." He sighed and wrapped his hand over hers where it still rested against his shoulder. "Worrying is a natural part of caring. The only way to stop worrying is to stop caring."

"I don't want to stop caring, but I need to be able to concentrate on my work."

"It's called balance." He squeezed her fingers. "You used to be proud of your ability to compartmentalize. That's what you need to do here."

"That's just it, Booth. I can't compartmentalize you. I wake up in the morning thinking about having coffee with you at the diner, and I fall asleep at night wondering if you'd had to shoot anybody that day, or worse, if anybody shot at you."

"Whereas I wake up in the morning thinking about the way your eyes light up when you smile, and I fall asleep at night wondering if you'd been bitten by a snake or captured by a tribe of headhunters."

"Headhunters?" She grinned. "Really, Booth?"

"The point is—" he said, shooting her a quelling glance, "It isn't easy for me, either." He shrugged a little. "It's all part of the package, Bones. You can't run away from it any more than you can run away from your own heart."

"Then how do you deal with it?"

"Mostly you just learn to live with it."

"It makes me very uncomfortable."

He smiled faintly. "It does that to everyone."

"Do you worry about Parker?"

"Yeah, Bones. I do. Every minute of every day."

And yet Booth was very good at his job, and Parker was a healthy, well-adjusted child. So perhaps what Booth had said about balance was correct, and she could learn to control her apprehension so it wouldn't interfere with her work. She had to learn, really, because according to Booth, the only other option would be to stop caring, and she didn't think she could do that anymore.

Booth took a breath, and she sensed that he was weighing his words. "I can't promise you that nothing's ever going to happen to me, any more than you can promise me that. But I can promise you that I will never, ever stop caring."

Never was an inherently flawed concept, impossible to prove, but she let it pass without comment. It was enough for now that he didn't seem angry with her for her deception.

"There's something else."

Eyebrows raised, he grinned at her. "There's more?"

"Yes." She pushed at his shoulder, but she was smiling. Telling him the truth felt good. "And this is important, too."

"Right," he said, "eye contact." But he squeezed her fingers again, and she found that she couldn't be annoyed with him for teasing her.

"I owe you an apology."

His grin faded to a look of blank confusion. "For what?"

"I believe I may have treated you unfairly."

"In what regard?"

"It's possible that ... on occasion ... I may have drawn inappropriate attention to my intellectual superiority."

"Wow," he said.

"Let me finish."

"Okay."

"I have come to believe that there are different kinds of intelligence, and that while my overall IQ and knowledge in many subject areas is far superior to yours, there are equally valid disciplines within which your knowledge and understanding exceeds my own."

"Bones. In English, please?"

She sighed. "I understand that there may be some things—" maybe even a lot of things "—about which you know more than I do."

When he only continued to watch her, she bit her lip, then pushed the rest of it out in a rush.

"I'm sorry if you ever felt that I didn't respect your abilities," she said. "The fact is, if you hadn't been with me back there ..." She couldn't bring herself to finish the thought, and her words trailed off in a shudder.

"Hey." Letting go of her fingers, he slid his hand up to her shoulder and then on to rest against the curve of her neck. "That's what friends are for, right?" he said. "Helping each other out when things get tough?"

She nodded. "I just ... I wanted you to know that I appreciated it."

"Ah. Well, you're welcome."

He smiled at her, and she smiled back, and for a moment she had a strong urge to lean forward just a little bit more so that she could feel the sweet-hungry sensation of his lips against hers. She dropped her eyes instead, not wanting him to suspect her thoughts. But there were times, like this one, when she wished she wasn't who she was.

Judging by the muffled drumbeat on the palm fronds over their heads, it was still raining. The fire hissed at a wayward drop of water, and insects hummed and buzzed all around them, despite the damp weather. It was almost as if the forest itself was a living, breathing entity. She imagined it watching over the two of them, then snorted a little. That type of whimsical thinking was very out of character for her.

"Is that everything, then? No more big revelations?" Booth asked. "Because I'm thinking maybe we should try to get some sleep."

"I believe that's it, yes."

She rolled back over, careful not to hit him with her knee again, and eased back into place. When his arm came around her waist, there was something different about it, a tenderness she hadn't noticed before. He made her feel safe, she decided—which was ridiculous, because she was perfectly capable of taking care of herself, especially out here in the open—but she couldn't deny that she enjoyed the weight of his arm at her waist and the warmth of his breath moving through her hair.

He was different from any man she had ever known, and being close to him felt right in ways she couldn't accurately define. But because of him, she kept having to mediate arguments between her rational side, which insisted on pointing out all the ways people had disappointed her over the years, and another, long silenced part of herself that yearned to believe the things Booth believed and wondered if maybe falling didn't always have to hurt.

She'd learned a great deal from Booth over the years—the importance of eye contact, the role of listening as a path to understanding, and how to temper truth with compassion—but there was still the fact that she would never have Booth's kind of open heart. And he deserved somebody who could give him that, a woman who was not, as he'd once accurately called her, a cold fish.

She sighed, her eyes on the glowing embers of the fire. All her life she'd been able to study and practice, to learn the things she needed to get what she wanted. But there were no rules for this, no diagrams she could memorize that would guide her through the unpredictable challenges of human relationships. How ironic it would be if the one skill she wanted most to master also turned out to be the one skill that was beyond her grasp.


	5. Chapter 5

  
The dream came again that night. It started the way it always did, with the steady thwap, thwap, thwap of rotors against the searing desert winds. Like an image viewed through a camera lens, the scene gradually came into focus. First the pilot's hands, steady at the controls, then the interior of the chopper, and last to take shape was the little battle-scarred village with its simple homes and narrow, dusty streets.

In the dream it all happened again, just like it had that day, only now he knew what was coming. He saw himself deploy his patrol and then later nod when Private Burke asked permission to help a group of school children with their kites. He heard himself give the order to "take Holman, Garcia, and Lee with you."

There were the women, haggling over the price of a length of fabric, and the clerics with their earnest faces, arguing loudly in Dari.

In the sepia-toned nightmare the kites were the only source of color—vibrantly hued squares of red, yellow and green dancing in the desert sky.

And there was the limping boy with the mangled left arm.

Booth knew what was coming next, but though he wanted to cry out he had no voice, and his feet ignored his frantic orders to move, to intercede before it was too late.

Not only was he horrified by the dream's relentless progression, he was also powerless to stop it. He couldn't even look away. All he could do was stand and watch while the boy entered the school yard, spoke to his classmates, and then turned, locked gazes with Booth, and tugged at something under his shirt.

It was always the sound of the explosion that woke him up and freed his voice to shout out in the night. Only on this night, for the first time, he choked it back, as if even his subconscious was reluctant to disturb Bones's sleep.

His eyes snapped open, but the remnants of the dream lingered. In his mind's eye he saw again the mangled and dismembered bodies, the burn-blackened skin, and the sightless gazes of four of his men—three of them green recruits and the fourth a seasoned soldier who'd just transferred out of Bravo Company. Good men, whose only crime had been to help some kids with their kites.

The night air was muggy and still after the heavy rain. Wide awake and restless, Booth waited for his breathing to slow and for the agonizing memories to recede while Bones slept on beside him. The steady rise and fall of her shoulders reassured him that she, at least, had not been disturbed by the dream.

He eased his arm free so that he could prop himself up and check on the fire. There were still a few coals, their pale orange glow nearly hidden in the ash, but it needed his attention. Dealing with it would be a welcome distraction from the nightmare's residual effects.

It was tricky getting out of the lean-to without disturbing Bones, but he managed it, climbing crablike over her inert body and then rolling to his feet just beyond the steeply angled roof. He straightened, stretched, and felt his spine pop into alignment. He couldn't wait to sleep in a real bed again, preferably one with a decent mattress, clean sheets, and thick, fluffy pillows.

For the next few minutes he concentrated on getting the fire going again, first with tiny shavings of bamboo, then with small twigs, and finally with bigger wood that sent clouds of smoke rising toward the brightening sky. After the fire had been burning steadily for a while, Booth checked the shoes and socks and found that though the shoes were still damp, the socks had dried. And there was nothing, he was pleased to note, inside any of them that crawled or slithered.

He'd put his shoes on and started lacing them up when he noticed movement out of the corner of his eye. It took a moment to make out distinct shapes, but as soon as he did he reached over to shake Bones's shoulder.

"Hey, sleepy head," he said, keeping his voice low. "You might want to see this."

"Go 'way," she mumbled, and hunched her shoulders against him.

"Bones. Come on. Wake up. The bats are coming back."

That got her attention. She sat up, rubbing her eyes in a way that made him think of Parker on chilly January mornings. "Where?"

"There." He pointed, his arm brushing companionably against hers.

"I don't see anything."

She was looking the wrong way, and he reached up to turn her head in the right direction, then let his hands settle against the base of her neck. "There."

"Oh," she said. "There."

Hundreds of darting shadows flitted silently through the predawn light to vanish into the hole he and Bones had emerged from the night before.

"They're beautiful," she said, her voice filled with quiet awe.

"Yeah," he agreed. "From this distance, they kind of are."

"I guess that explains one thing," she said, when the last of the bats had vanished from sight.

"What's that?"

"The absence of mosquitoes." She stretched, a gesture that was both more feminine and more graceful than she probably realized. As he let his hands fall away from her he wondered if she moved like a dancer because of training or if it was simply a genetic inheritance from her mother. He tried to picture her as a little girl, her hair piled on top of her head and tied with ribbons. The five-year-old Bones in his imagination gave him a saucy grin, spun a circle on the tips of her toes, and ended by sticking her tongue out at him.

Choking back a laugh, Booth reached for the survival pack.

"Are you okay, Booth?" She was staring at him, obviously puzzled, and he wanted—suddenly, desperately—to kiss her.

"I'm fine," he said, and dug into the bag, searching for a distraction. His hand brushed against a bottle, and he hauled it out with a kind of giddy relief. "Drink?"

"Yes. Please."

She took the bottle, and he turned away to reach for her shoes and socks, setting them next to her. "Socks are dry," he said. "Shoes are still a little damp."

"I'm surprised the socks dried in all that rain."

"I've been up for a while," he said. "I built the fire back up."

Eyes narrowed, she studied him. "Couldn't you sleep?"

He shrugged. "Bad dream," he said.

"The same one you had the other night?"

The concern in her voice drew his gaze to hers for an instant before he looked away again, focusing his attention on the fire. He owed her an explanation, but he wasn't ready to talk about it.

"Yeah. I'm sorry about that. I know I was a bit of an ass afterwards."

"You were upset, Booth. It's understandable. Nightmares can be quite disturbing."

"I'm just a little tired of this one, is all." And wasn't _that_ an understatement. "It's been weeks. You'd think my subconscious would have let it go by now."

"You should talk to Dr. Sweets." The way she said it, like Sweets was right around the corner or something, made him smile bitterly.

"I wish I could." It surprised him a little to realize he meant it.

She paused in pulling on her shoes to look over at him. "You could talk to me. Sweets says that sometimes it helps to tell somebody what's bothering you." Returning her attention to her shoes, she tugged at the laces. "I don't understand how that could be true, because talking about a thing can't really make it go away, but if you want to try it, I'm willing to listen."

Booth pushed himself to his feet. "Maybe later," he said. "I'm going to go dismantle the rain catcher."

The little pot was full again, and he took it to Bones to empty into their water bottles, then went back for the rain poncho. They'd be running low on water again by nightfall. He hoped they found a river by then.

"Ready to go?" he asked, giving the poncho a final fold as he approached the lean to.

"All set," she said, holding the machete in one hand and adjusting the pack on her shoulders with the other. "Which way do you want to go?"

It surprised him that she would ask. The Bones he'd known back in DC would have simply taken the lead.

"Downhill." He tucked the poncho into the top of the survival pack, then used his foot to push damp earth over the smoldering coals. They couldn't afford to pour any of their water on the fire, but he wanted to make sure there was no danger of it spreading after they left. "If we can find a stream we'll follow it to the coast."

She nodded, helping him kick more dirt over the remaining coals. "That seems like a very good plan."

They traveled in easy camaraderie for the first few hours, but then the ground cover started to thicken, and soon they were hacking their way through with the machete, their progress slowed both by hunger and the constant need for caution. They'd seen little wildlife beyond the infuriating clouds of gnats and a handful of spiders, but there'd been one rather impressive snake skin, and several times they'd heard animals moving through the nearby brush.

"Okay, I don't get it," Booth said, stopping to swipe at the sweat that beaded on his brow. "What the hell happened to the shade?"

Bones tugged a vine out of the way and glanced over at him. "We're in the jungle now." She pointed up. "The canopy's thinner."

"I thought we were in the jungle last night."

"That was rainforest. But the fact that we've reached jungle is actually a very good sign."

He looked askance at her. "We _really_ need to find some food."

"No. Hodgins explained the difference to me." She made a circle with her thumb and forefinger. "Rainforest in the center of the island, and jungle around it. The jungle grows where the trees have been thinned, usually by humans."

"So you're saying somebody cut down a bunch of trees and that's why it takes two hours to make fifty feet of progress."

"Yes."

"And we're closer to people, but it's going to take five times as long to find them."

"That's right." She nodded.

"Well, that's just perfect."

"I don't understand why you're so upset, Booth. The island's only twenty miles across at its widest point. We'll reach the coast in a matter of days."

"Not at this pace. At this pace it could take weeks. We've made, maybe, twenty-five feet of progress in the last hour. That's what—" he did a quick mental calculation. "—more than two weeks per mile? Weeks, Bones. Not days. If we don't find a stream to follow, it could take longer than that." He blew out a breath. "And without food or water ..."

"Let me lead for a while," Bones said, already shrugging the survival pack off her shoulders. "I'm not as tired as you are."

"Fine." He handed over the knife, its gleaming edge stained with sap, and took the pack in exchange. "It's all yours."

They hiked for two more sweaty, miserable hours before Booth heard running water. Apparently Bones hadn't noticed it yet, because she kept hacking away at the dense undergrowth. Reaching out, he tapped her on the shoulder, then jumped back when she spun around, the knife flashing dangerously in the afternoon sun.

"I kind of want to keep that leg, if you don't mind," he said wryly.

"Then you shouldn't have startled me." She was breathing hard. Her face gleamed with sweat, and her shirt was dark with it. Booth wanted to kick himself. He should've been paying better attention. He knew her tendency to over extend herself. Reaching into the pack, he pulled out one of the water bottles. It was less than a third full. He handed it to her and pulled out the second, nearly empty bottle for himself.

"Drink," he said.

"We're getting low on water." She shook the bottle a little, making the water inside dance and sparkle in the sunlight. "Besides, I don't need a drink. I'm fine."

"No, you aren't." He drained the last few drops from the bottle he was holding and looked her over, deliberately letting his eyes linger on her sweat-soaked chest as concern segued into irritation. He understood stubborn, but not when it led to stupid. "You're sweating like an overheated marathoner. Drink. The last thing we need is you passing out."

She gave him a mutinous glare, but he was right, and they both knew it. He watched her throat work as she took a single swallow of water. She lowered the bottle, wiped the sweat from her face with her sleeve, and glowered at him. "Satisfied?"

"No, actually." Hands on his hips, he glared back. "You need to finish it."

"Well that's not going to happen."

He shoved his empty bottle back into the pack with enough force to make the plastic snap and pop against his fingers. "You are the most infuriating, obstinate, bullheaded woman I've ever known. You'd drive yourself into the ground before admitting you were wrong about something, wouldn't you?"

"I'm not wrong!" She shook the bottle again, close enough to his face that he almost slapped it out of her hand. "And you're the most high-handed, overbearing, tyrannical man I've ever known."

It was the heat. Heat and exhaustion and lack of food and water. He knew that. But fact didn't trump feeling.

"Somebody has to look after you, Bones." He struggled to keep his voice even, but his temper was dangerously close to the breaking point. "God knows you suck at looking after yourself. Hell, I don't even know why you're arguing with me. You're the one who was worrying about dehydration before we ever even left camp!"

She stepped in, going toe-to-toe with him, and despite his black mood he had to admire her backbone. "I have three doctorates—" she punctuated each phrase with a jab of her finger against his chest "—I speak six languages, I'm the top forensic anthropologist in the world, and I'm a best-selling author. I don't need anyone to look after me." Furious tears sparkled in her eyes.

Unmoved, he tapped her temple lightly with his index finger, ignoring her when she flinched. "That's all up here, Bones." Shifting his hand from her head to somewhere just north of her heart, he tapped again. "What about what's _here_?"

She swatted his hand away. "You're always talking about my heart as if it has anything to do with this. It doesn't. The heart is just a pump, Booth."

It was all he could do not to grab her by the shoulders and shake her. "Now you're being deliberately dense."

"But—"

"No." Goaded past the breaking point, he put his hand over her mouth, shaking his head when her eyes widened in surprise. "Shut up for a minute and listen to me." _Better to risk everything and lose ..._ "You keep the world at arm's length, and you do it on purpose."

She started to respond, but he stopped her, his hand tightening until she stilled. He was sick of dancing around her damned issues and waiting for her to figure it out for herself.

"You're so sure you're going to get hurt that you figure it's better not to take a chance. But you're wrong. You're so many kinds of wrong I can't even begin to count them all."

He let his hand fall away, but she only stared at him, wide-eyed. "That fortress you've built around your heart keeps you safe, but at what price, Bones?"

All at once the sheer hopelessness of the situation overwhelmed him, dropping his voice to a whisper as discouragement swept away his fury. "When I think of all the joy you've given up, _are_ giving up, just to avoid being hurt ..." He sighed. "It makes _me_ sad."

"You're forgetting one thing," she said, her voice low and tight with what might've been hurt but was more likely just defensive anger.

"What's that?" God, he was tired. Tired of her, of this place, of Afghanistan ... He just wanted to take a shower, go home, and hug Parker. In that order.

She jabbed her thumb toward her own chest. "It's _my_ life."

"You're right, Bones. It is your life. And if this is really how you want to live it, I'll stop pushing." He swung the pack back onto his shoulders and picked up the knife from where she'd dropped it on the ground. "But I can still be disappointed."

Turning his back on her he started hacking his way toward the water he'd heard earlier. The thick tangle of vines and shrubs fought back, but the machete was still sharp, and he was angry, so he reached his destination in far less time than it might've taken him otherwise, breaking through the last of the brambles and emerging onto a narrow strip of rocky, debris-strewn beach twenty minutes later.

The river was about ten feet wide, with fast-flowing water that eddied and swirled as it tumbled past. A hundred feet upstream, a waterfall spilled over a high rock ledge into a pool of calmer water that, if they were lucky, would turn out to be deep enough for bathing.

"We'll camp here tonight," Booth said shortly, not caring that his tone supported her earlier allegation of bossiness. Without looking at her he dropped the pack beside him on the rocks. "We can refill the water bottles, catch some fish, and get some rest. Tomorrow we'll see if this thing—" He gestured toward the river. "—will get us out of here."

He dropped to a crouch and dug in the pack for the can of Sterno and the parachute cord, setting both beside him on the rocks.

"Why don't we just build a wood fire?" Bones's voice was subdued. She stood several feet away, watching.

"I need the lid." He popped it off with the blade of his pocket knife, then set the can aside.

"For what?"

"To make a fish hook." He glanced in her direction. "Maybe you can gather some firewood?"

She nodded and turned away, and he felt a flash of remorse. He'd been hard on her back there. But damn it, he was so _sick_ of that mask she wore. He'd seen who she was behind it—warm and loving, with that incredible laugh that lit up her whole face. He wanted the woman who bought a bridge to save a town, the one who laid herself bare to catch a killer and went to a stranger's funeral on Christmas day. He wanted the woman who cried for a dog no one else wanted, savored his grandfather's grilled cheese sandwiches, and valued truth above all, no matter the cost.

Lost in thought, he'd been working on auto-pilot, and when he looked down he realized he'd nearly finished crafting a rough fish hook from a punched-out rectangle of the Sterno can lid. He picked it up, examined it in the sunlight, and nodded, satisfied. It was crude, but it should do the job.

Bones dropped a handful of wood nearby, its clatter drawing his head up from what he was doing. Either she'd worked quickly or more time had passed than he'd thought, because she'd accumulated enough firewood for a bonfire.

Eyebrows raised, he looked up at her. "That's probably enough."

She stared at the pile as if only just noticing how big it was. Then she nodded. "I'm going to have a look around," she said, and before he could respond, "I won't go far."

He watched her walk away. She went upstream, toward the falls, and he knew he should be fishing by now, he couldn't take his eyes off her. His heart ached. He wanted so much for her. For them. And he couldn't seem to let that dream go, even when she exasperated him to the point of fury. But he'd been right in what he'd told her that night in DC. He couldn't spend the rest of his life hoping for a miracle that might never come.

His hand closed around a nearby rock, and with a low, harsh curse, he fast-balled it into the river. When he looked up, she'd turned to look back. Their gazes locked, and he wondered if his eyes were as full of pain as hers were.

"Damn it. Damn it, damn it, _damn it_!" Grabbing his pocket knife, he dug furiously at the ground by his side, tossing aside rocks and hunting underneath them for something to use as bait. He snatched the first thing he found, an ordinary earthworm, and worked it onto the hook. He was just about to drop the line in the water when the sound of Bones's voice snapped his head around.

"Booth!"

He couldn't see her through the thick underbrush, but hadn't she said she wouldn't go far? _Where the hell was she_?

"Bones?"

"Here!"

That didn't sound like fear in her voice, but there was a kind of tension there that made him scramble over the rocks in her direction. He finally found her near the waterfall.

"Bones ... What the hell?"

She turned to him, her eyes shining. "Look," she said, and gestured to her right, away from the river.

He looked, half expecting to see ancient ruins or hobbit skeletons. Instead he saw butterflies. Hundreds of them. In more colors than Parker's big box of crayons. They filled the sunny little glade almost to overflowing, some resting on flowers or blades of grass, others floating through the air like confetti at a parade.

Without warning the butterflies became kite fragments, the flowers and grass a dusty, blood-soaked courtyard. Sand gritted between his teeth. Screams rang in his ears. The stench of death clogged his throat. Stomach churning, he leaned against a nearby tree, his breath coming in ragged gasps as he fought to subdue remembered horrors of another day, another place.

"Booth?" Her touch on his shoulder brought him back to the present with a start. "Are you okay?"

The worry in her eyes made him want to kick himself. "I'm fine," he said. "I just got a little light-headed for a minute."

She continued to watch him, and he could tell she didn't quite believe the lie that had sounded weak even to his own ears. By sheer force of will, he straightened, smiled, and gestured toward the little glade.

"They're beautiful."

"They're breathtaking," she said, turning her attention back to the bright patches of color that danced in the afternoon sun.

They watched for a little while longer, and though Booth half-expected another flashback, it didn't come. Instead he felt a kind of peace settle over him as the gruesome memories slowly receded.

Several minutes passed before Bones's voice, pitched low and filled with regret, reached him again.

"I'm sorry," she said. "I don't mean to disappoint you."

His sigh felt like it came from somewhere down around his knees. He didn't look at her. "Oh, Bones. I know that."

"I don't want to hurt you." There was a depth of intensity in her words that he'd rarely heard from her before, and it drew his eyes to hers. "I never, _ever_ want to hurt you."

Against his better judgment, he tucked her head into his shoulder and drew her close, wishing that all their problems could vanish as easily as the bat colony had that morning. Her arms came around his back in a fierce hug, and they held each other for what felt like a long time while the butterflies played around them. But as soon as he felt her grip on him ease, he let her go and stepped back. She had been the one to set the boundaries of their relationship, and while he didn't like them, he would respect them.

Resisting the urge to kiss her, he hooked a thumb over his shoulder instead. "I'm going to see if I can catch some fish."

"Booth?"

He turned back. "Yeah?"

She plucked at her shirt and made a face. "Do you think the river is safe to swim in?"

He nodded. "Go ahead," he said. "I'll probably go for a swim myself later." It would feel good to scrub four days worth of dirt and grime from his skin. Too bad they didn't have a razor. He'd kill for a shave.

Leaving her there he returned to his fishing spot and dropped the line with its still wiggling bait into the water, then settled in to wait for a bite. Luckily for them, the river was teeming with hungry fish. He was pulling his third catch off the line when he happened to glance upstream.

Bones was standing shoulder-deep in the river, her face turned up to the falls. Mist scattered around her, making rainbows in the afternoon sun, and all he could do was stare, his heart pounding against his ribs. He'd never wanted anything as desperately as he wanted her in that moment, and he'd never thought his chances so remote. While he watched, she went under, coming up a moment later with water streaming from her head and shoulders, and when she pushed her hair back from her face her bare arms gleamed in the sunlight.

A raucous bird call drew his attention away from her. Shaking his head, he turned back to the fish. She wasn't his, would never be his, and staring at her like this would only make him crazy.

A few minutes later he pulled his fourth fish from the water and decided it was time to set about getting a fire started. He was laying the foundation when Bones returned.

"I can do that," she said.

He glanced up, startled to find her standing right beside him. Her shirt was damp. She must've rinsed it out in the river.

"Why don't you go for a swim?" she asked, already reaching into the woodpile. "I can handle—Ouch! Damn it!"

"Bones?" Alarmed, he leapt to his feet. "What happened?"

"Something bit me." She said it like it was some kind of personal affront as she rubbed at a spot on the back of her right hand.

"Let me see." Ignoring her half-hearted protest, he took her hand in his. There was a small welt on the back, and the area was already reddening. "Did you see what it was?"

"No." She shook her head. "But I'm sure it's nothing to worry about."

"Right. Because this place doesn't have any poisonous bugs."

"Venomous."

He blinked. "What?"

"Not poisonous, venomous. What I felt was either a sting or a bite. That means it's probably venomous."

"Yes, and that makes me feel so much better," he said, not bothering to hide his sarcasm.

"Booth ..."

"No." Fear flashed through him, swift and hot, as the implications sank in. He reached for the survival pack. "What's in the first aid kit? Do you remember?" His mind was blanking on details even as he plunged his hand into the canvas bag. "And what about that thing Hodgins gave you? Didn't that have something to do with bugs?"

"And reptiles, yes." She was watching him, eyebrows raised, a faint smile on her lips.

His hand brushed against the plasticized cards. He yanked them out, then went back in for the first aid kit.

"Booth." Her voice brought his eyes up to hers. "I'm okay," she said.

He hoped she was right, but he didn't start to relax until he'd treated the wound with antiseptic and antibiotic, then applied a band aid.

"How's it feel?" he asked, gathering up the scraps of paper and scanning through Hodgins' cheat sheet. "This says you should take an antihistamine."

She made a face. "It itches."

"Well, don't scratch." He gave her a pair of Benadryl tablets, then two Tylenol, and finished by handing her one of their bottles of water.

Not until after she swallowed the pills did he turn to sift through the pile of wood, though it was doubtful he'd be able to find whatever had taken a chunk out of her. He knew it wasn't a snake. The bite was wrong for that. And it probably wasn't a big insect, like one of those tarantulas she'd told him about when he'd first gotten here. She would have noticed something like that when she was picking up the wood. And if it had been ants, she would've been bitten more than once, since they tended to travel in packs. So. Most likely a spider. Or maybe a centipede. Whatever it was, he hoped it was small. And non-lethal.

He didn't find anything in the wood pile, and Bones was looking at him like he'd lost his mind, so he finally gave up.

"Still feeling okay?" he asked.

"Yes, Booth. I'm fine. Like I said, it just itches."

"And like _I_ said, don't scratch."

She rolled her eyes at him. "Go," she said. "Swim."

"You're sure you're okay."

"Positive." She pushed him in the direction of the falls. "I've been wanting another chance to try out the flint anyway, and this way I can practice on my own. So go."

He did, reluctantly, but he kept looking back, half convinced she was going to drop just as soon as he was out of sight. Bones ignored him, busying herself with his pocket knife and the flint as if he wasn't even there.

When he reached the glade where they'd seen the butterflies he stripped to his boxers, then took his shirt with him to the river's edge, pleased to discover that the water was cool, but not cold. He used his shirt to scrub as much dirt as he could from his face and body, then rinsed it and spread it out to dry in the sun before lying back to float, his gaze following the track of the water back up the cliff face.

Something about the way the light played across the waterfall nagged at him, and he dropped his feet back to the riverbed and stood up to get a better look. When that didn't help, he got out of the water and dressed, then picked his way up the hill beside the falls, following a narrow path that had probably been made by some animal.

The track led behind the falls, where Booth discovered a cave that was almost high enough for him to stand in, and deep enough that the back section was dry. He didn't know if Bones would agree to sleep there tonight, but if she would it would save them having to build another shelter.

Bones was looking his way when he emerged from behind the waterfall. She pointed to her left, where smoke curled up from a small fire.

So. She'd gotten it started. Good for her. He gave her a thumbs up and started down the path. He'd had a bath and found a place for them to sleep. Plus they had food, a fire, and access to plenty of water. Things were looking up.

"Good job," he said, reaching her side as she added another stick to the fire. "I knew you could do it."

"You have a great deal of confidence in me."

"Shouldn't I?"

"We don't usually work together under these conditions. It would be perfectly reasonable of you to assume that I would fail."

"Not gonna happen, Bones." He'd collected a handful of green branches on his way back from his swim, and he set about stripping the leaves so he could use the sticks as skewers for the fish.

"How's your hand?" he asked.

She flicked an irritated glance in his direction. "Would you stop worrying? I'm okay."

But she kept it tucked out of sight. Not a good sign. He set the branches aside. "Show me."

"Booth ..."

He was already reaching for her hand, and something about the look on his face must have convinced her that he meant business, because she didn't resist.

"It's swelling," he said, worried again. The back of her hand was red and angry looking, noticeably swollen.

She tugged her hand free. "Not badly."

Without responding, he reached for the pack and found his bandanna. At the river's edge, he dunked it, wrung it out, then repeated the action.

"Here," he said, handing it to her, "There's not much ice in the jungle, but at least the water's cool."

He set about making dinner with one eye on her and one eye on the river. It would lead them to the coast, but how far was that? And once they reached the coast, how much further to get back to camp? What if Bones needed medical attention? As far as he knew, the only facilities here on the island were rudimentary at best.

"Booth!"

He snapped his gaze up to her. "What?"

"Would you stop obsessing? Please?"

Instead of answering directly, he tilted his head toward the collapsible pot. "Maybe you should start heating some water."

"Oh. Yes. Right."

He watched her take the pot down to the river's edge, noting that she carried it left handed and avoided supporting herself with her right hand when she bent to scoop up water. When she turned around he snapped his attention back to the job at hand. He didn't know if she'd noticed him watching or not, but she didn't say anything when she got back, and for a while they worked together without speaking, Bones concentrating on refilling their water bottles while he cooked the fish.

"Right, Bones. Here you go. Eat up." He offered her the first fish, keeping the second for himself.

"Thanks." She set the fish, still in its skin, on a flat rock and pulled the skin away, revealing the meat underneath. Steam rose into the air, but that didn't stop her from nabbing bits of fish between her thumb and forefinger and lifting them to her mouth.

"Wow," she said, chewing slowly.

"Good?"

"Fantastic."

Booth left his own fish to cool while he reached into the day pack for one of the little envelopes of bouillon, emptying it into the collapsible pot just as it hit a good rolling boil. Using a pair of green sticks as makeshift tongs, he lifted the pot from the fire and carried it over to Bones, setting it down near her fish.

"What's that?" she asked.

"Chicken bouillon."

She wrinkled her nose at it. "Yuck."

"Yuck?" He grinned. "I didn't know geniuses said yuck." When she only glared at him, his grin faded. "Drink half," he said. "It's high in sodium. We need the salt."

She sighed. "Fine. I'll drink it. But I don't have to like it."

With a snort he crossed back to the fire and his own meal. "No," he said, "you don't."

By the time they finished eating Booth was feeling pretty content. He looked over at Bones. She was sitting cross-legged, her hands resting on her knees while she looked out over the water. His gaze dropped to her right hand and he shook his head. The swelling was worse. At some point she'd taken off the band-aid, and the angry red welt was plainly visible. It looked like her fingers were starting to swell, too. He reached for the bandanna she'd discarded near the fire and took it down to the river, rinsing it several times before wringing it out and bringing it back to her.

He offered it without a word and accepted her silent look of gratitude without comment. He gestured toward the waterfall.

"There's a cave back there," he said.

"I know."

"I thought ... I don't know. Maybe we could sleep there tonight? It'd save us having to build another lean-to." He watched her carefully. If she was at all uncomfortable with the idea he'd back off.

He should have known better. She didn't even twitch.

"It never occurred to me that we would build a lean-to, Booth. It's a perfectly good cave, and the waterfall will keep most of the mosquitoes out."

"You aren't, you know, nervous about sleeping in another cave?"

"Why should I be?"

"Oh, I don't know, maybe because you think there might be another earthquake?"

"We aren't going underground."

"Ah. Right." He wasn't entirely sure he understood why that was the vital difference, but if it worked for her, he was willing to go with it.

Bones refolded the bandanna, wincing a little as she pressed it against her skin. "I don't want to build another shelter."

"We may have to tomorrow night."

"But not tonight."

"No," he said. "Not tonight."

Using the folded bandanna as a potholder, Bones poured the last batch of boiled water into the second bottle, capped it off, and tucked it into the day pack while Booth put out the fire. They left the remains of their dinner on the rocks.

When they reached the cave, Booth settled down with his back against the wall and stretched his legs out in front of him.

"How's your hand?" he asked, watching her adjust the bandanna yet again.

"It'll be fine by morning," she said.

"But it isn't fine now."

She sighed. "Leave it alone, Booth."

He reached for the pack and pulled out the first aid kit.

"Here," he said, handing her more pills.

"Shouldn't we save these? We might need them for something else."

"No. Bones. We shouldn't." He gave her a bottle of water. "Swallow."

She sighed her exasperation.

"Bones ..."

"I'm swallowing!"

He watched her until she did, then took the bottle back and dropped it into the day pack. "Right. Now get some sleep."

"You're being bossy again."

"So?"

"So it's annoying."

"I'll remind you of that the next time we're at a crime scene."

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"Nothing, all right? Just ... Try to get some sleep." He dropped his head back against the wall and closed his eyes.

"What about you?"

"What about me?"

"You aren't going to sleep like that, are you?"

"Like what?"

"Sitting up."

"Oh. Then yes, I'm going to sleep like this. Why?"

"It seems odd."

"You didn't seem to mind when I did it in the tunnels."

"No, it seemed strange then, too. I just didn't mention it."

"Then maybe you could skip mentioning it this time, too."

She was silent for a moment, but he was pretty sure he could hear the wheels turning in her head.

"Hey, Booth?"

Wheels. Turning. "Yeah?"

She poked at his thigh. "Can I use your leg for a pillow?"

"Only if you stop doing that."

"What?"

"The poking. Stop with the poking."

"Oh. Okay." She lay down, her head coming to rest against his thigh. "I'm not too heavy, am I?"

"No, Bones. You're fine." He watched her try to find a comfortable position for her injured hand. She finally settled for resting it across her stomach.

"Okay?" He rested his own right hand at the bend of her elbow.

"I'd prefer my own bed."

He snorted a faint laugh. "You and me both." His thumb brushed against her arm. Once. Twice. "Think you can sleep?"

"I think so."

"Good," he said softly, his thumb stroking along her arm once more.

She dozed off soon after that, but Booth stayed awake for a long time. And when he did finally close his eyes, his rest was an uneasy one, punctuated by the sounds of gunfire and children's screams.


	6. Chapter 6

It was still dark when she awoke, but the full moon managed to push a few slivers of light through the waterfall. Her hand throbbed, the joints stiff and swollen. It had been a stupid thing to do, reaching into the wood pile like that. She knew better. But she'd been distracted, thinking about him, and her, and them, and wondering what it all meant and whether she'd made a mistake when she'd turned him down all those months ago.

Careful not to disturb Booth, she got to her feet and crossed to the waterfall, where she rinsed the bandanna and pressed it gently against the bite, hissing when even that light contact sent fire arching up her arm. She could almost hear Michael in her head. Rookie mistake, he'd say. You got what you deserved.

She sighed. Deserved or not, it hurt like hell. She'd done her best to keep Booth from seeing that, though. He had enough on his mind. Something had happened to him in Afghanistan, something terrible enough to give him nightmares and make him panic at the sight of a field full of butterflies. She'd recognized his symptoms—the cold sweat, the rapid respiration and accelerated pulse—but when he'd been unwilling to discuss it with her she'd let it go. He might choose to tell her in time, but until then she wasn't going to add to his burden by giving him cause to worry about her—not if she could help it.

She hit the button to activate the backlight on Booth's watch. Four seventeen. Not much point in lying down again. The sun would be up in two hours, and with her hand like this, she wouldn't be able to sleep anyway. She rinsed the bandanna once more, then went to sit down with her back against the side wall. Resting her hand on her bent leg, she looked over at Booth. He was restless again. He mumbled unintelligibly, and his hands and feet moved as if he were running from something in his dream. Or maybe toward something. She didn't like seeing him like this. She wanted to help, but she didn't know how.

Should she wake him up? She didn't want to. She suspected he hadn't had a good night's rest since his arrival on the island. No. It would be better if she could think of a way to stop the dream without disturbing him.

Maybe a touch on his arm would work. Sweets had told her once that simple human contact could be a very effective means of communicating support. She scooted closer and stretched out her good hand. Then she hesitated. He'd calmed down a little. Maybe the dream was over. But no, an instant later he grew restless again.

In the end she touched him with the same kind of care she might use with an artifact, a gentle sweep of her fingers along his arm. But it appeared to have no effect. In fact if anything, his restlessness increased. Frustrated, she drew her hand back.

She wished she could talk to Dr. Sweets. He would know what to do. Or maybe Gordon Gordon. But in the end it was Angela's advice she followed. Angela, who had always encouraged her to "follow her heart," and "trust herself," and "just go for it." She wasn't sure she completely understood what Angela meant by those statements, but maybe it meant that if she was going to touch Booth, she should do so with confidence.

With that thought in mind, she let her hand settle firmly on Booth's arm. His muscles quivered at her touch, and she bit her lip, but she didn't pull away.

"Shh," she said, pitching her voice low. She felt ridiculous talking to him when he was asleep, but it was all she could think to do. "Easy. It's all right. I'm right here." It was what he would say if the tables were turned, wasn't it? Maybe this was something she could learn.

She liked touching him. The simple act of sliding her fingers along his arm, if only to help him relax, was quite pleasurable, and since he was asleep she could indulge her curiosity without fear of consequences, letting her fingers learn the texture of his skin and the patterns of bone and sinew beneath.

When he stilled, and his breathing settled into the slower, deeper rhythm of true rest, she allowed herself a faint smile of satisfaction, but not until she was certain the dream had passed did she let her hand fall away. She moved back a little, but didn't return to her original position against the wall. She wanted to stay close.

Just in case.

As she watched over him her mind drifted back to what he'd said the previous afternoon. His comment that she'd disappointed him had devastated her, and when she'd told him later that she didn't ever want to hurt him, it had been the truth. But how could he ask her to be other than what she was? She'd built a life based on facts and logic, whereas Booth talked about "trusting his gut" and "having faith." He believed in forever.

And he believed in love.

 _Love wasn't rational. People couldn't be trusted. They disappointed you. Or abandoned you. Or let you down. It was best not to get too involved_. She had lived by those tenets for most of her life. Yet she loved her father despite the fact that he'd committed murder, and had even grown to value her relationship with him. She loved her brother, too. And even though she'd never stated it aloud, she was willing to acknowledge that she loved Booth.

She studied him, her arms wrapped around her drawn up knees. Empirically speaking, he wasn't perfect. His IQ was significantly lower than hers, he was a recovering gambling addict, and he had a bad back. But he was also dedicated, honorable, and loyal—qualities which she found admirable. More than that, when she was with him she felt more alive than she did with any other man she'd ever known. Angela had described Hodgins to her that way, once. And Angela and Hodgins seemed very happy together.

She wanted Booth to be happy, too. He should have the things he wanted—a woman who would love him for thirty, or forty, or fifty years, somebody who would be a good parent to Parker and a good wife to him. Somebody who understood his jokes, enjoyed sports as much as he did, and shared the newspaper with him on quiet Sunday mornings. She didn't know if she could be those things, but she'd begun to think that she wanted to try.

She'd always avoided long-term relationships in the past, convinced that the inherent risks outweighed any potential benefits. In every case, she'd considered herself to be the one taking the risk. This time, shewas the risk, and while the gambler in Booth made him predisposed to accept that risk, she felt a strong inclination to protect him. That, too, had been why she'd come to Maluku—to give him time and space to find someone else, someone who was good for him in ways she might never be.

Her determination to give him space, aided by the island's rudimentary communications system, meant that they hadn't spoken during the six months he'd been in Afghanistan. It was also why she hadn't known he was coming; there'd been no way for him to contact her. But he had come anyway, not knowing if she would welcome him, and he'd come at Christmas, a time when people often sought the company of family.

Was it possible she had misjudged him? That he knew the dangers and wanted her anyway? She thought about the little origami star she'd tucked away in the survival pack, and the watch she wore on her wrist. He understood her, probably better than anybody else ever had, and judging by the way he'd kissed her in the cave he was still attracted to her. It was equally true that her own reaction to his proximity had failed to abate during their six months apart.

She waited almost an hour before getting up to freshen the bandanna, and when she finished she stayed near the falls, studying the point where the river rounded a bend and disappeared into the jungle.

Her college physics professor had once explained that because of Heisenberg's uncertainty principle, the future was both unknown and unknowable, and she believed that hypothesis to be correct. But she _wanted_ to be able to see the future. Sometimes she even wished that she could be more like Angela, so that she could believe Harmonia Avalon's psychic readings were real. That way, maybe she would know what to do.

"How's your hand?"

Booth's voice, sleepy and soft, startled her. She turned. "You're awake."

"Looks that way," he said. He got to his feet with a groan and came to stand beside her. "You didn't answer my question."

"It's better." It wasn't really, but it also wasn't worse, and the slight equivocation seemed a necessary step toward alleviating his concern.

"Did you get much sleep?" he asked.

"Some." She glanced over at him, wondering if he would mention the dream. "You?"

"Not as much as I would have liked."

She waved a hand toward the river, its surface tinged pink and gold by the rising sun. "Maybe we'll make it to the coast today."

"Maybe." But he didn't sound optimistic.

For reasons she couldn't fathom, he put his arm around her and pulled her in against his side. It was a sweet gesture that bespoke simple affection, and instead of pulling away she let her head settle against his shoulder. They stayed like that while the pale pink of early sunrise brightened to orange and then gold. Eventually she felt, rather than heard, Booth's sigh.

"We should get moving," he said. "We've got a long day ahead."

"You can't know that."

"Call it gut instinct," he said, turning to pick up their gear.

"Instinct is an unreliable narrator."

"Right now it's the only narrator we've got."

He waved her out ahead of him, but she felt his eyes on her as they walked back to the fishing hole. Now that the sun was up she could see that the bite was red and angry looking, her hand badly swollen. But the pain was still localized, and there were no additional symptoms, so she didn't believe the injury to be a serious one. Knowing Booth would worry anyway, she did her best to hide it from him, but she knew he'd seen when he caught her elbow at a steep spot so she wouldn't have to support herself with the injured hand. He didn't comment, though, and she was grateful for that.

When they passed the little glade they found it empty of butterflies. Brennan thought it looked abandoned. Booth would have said the magic was gone. Either way, there was something a little sad about the emptiness.

The fishing pole Booth had improvised the previous evening was still where they'd left it. Brennan picked it up and looked around for something to use for bait.

"Try this," Booth said beside her. "Found it on the way down." Instead of waiting for her to retrieve the wiggling beetle from his palm, he baited the hook himself. "There. All set."

He reached for her right hand. When she flinched away, he shook his head. "I'm just going to freshen the bandanna."

A little embarrassed, she handed it over. "Thanks."

Half an hour later she pulled the last bit of meat from her second fish and sat back. "We need to find something else to eat."

"I agree." Booth took a gulp of water and handed her the bottle. "I could really go for a big juicy steak and a cold beer."

She laughed. "That isn't what I meant. I was thinking of fruit."

"Oh." He seemed a little disappointed. "That kind of food." He tilted his head toward the jungle. "It's a little tough to know what's safe to eat when you don't recognize any of the plants."

"I've grown familiar with a number of varieties of island flora." Brennan capped the water bottle and handed it back. "I just haven't seen any edible fruits, yet."

He topped off the bottle with freshly boiled water, then dropped it back into the day pack. "You should take some more Tylenol."

She shook her head. "We only have four left."

"Bones ..."

"No, Booth. I'm all right. We'll be following the river all day. I'll just keep the bandanna on it."

He looked doubtful, but he set the pack aside. "Are you sure?"

"Of course I'm sure." She started to get to her feet, then slapped at a mosquito. "But I would like some insect repellent."

"No kidding. What is it with the bugs out here, anyway? Can't they find anything else to chew on besides us?"

"Just be glad you took that anti-malarial."

"Right. Now all we have to worry about is dengue fever."

He handed her the insect repellent, waited until she'd finished, and then slathered some of it on his own exposed skin. Brennan watched him and remembered how his arm had felt beneath her fingertips. _How would he respond if she reached over right now and touched him? Would he say anything? Would his pupils dilate with sexual arousal? Would he pull her into his arms and lower his mouth to hers?_

She swallowed, glanced up, and found him watching her, eyebrows raised. "Everything all right there, Bones?"

"Fine," she said, more shortly than she'd intended. She dropped her eyes and took a breath, willing her erratic heartbeat back to normal. "I'm just anxious to get going."

"Well, then—" Finished with the insect repellent, he dropped it into the pack and zipped it up. Then he reached for the parang, double-checked that the fire was out, and nodded toward the river. "Let's hit the road."

For the next few hours they hiked in relative silence, but Booth insisted they stop every fifteen minutes to refresh the bandanna. As time passed the swelling eased, and while the bite was still painful, Brennan no longer found it so distracting that she couldn't focus on anything else.

Early in the afternoon they stopped to rest at the bend that Brennan had noticed from the falls. The river was shallow here, and wider, so that though the water still hurried across its bed of algae covered rocks it no longer frothed and bubbled as it went. After helping Booth build a fire so they could refill their water bottles, Brennan took off her shoes and socks and rolled up her pant legs.

When had she forgotten how to just enjoy being alive? What had happened to the girl who'd drunk Bhang in India? The grad student who'd risked everything on a fling with her sexy professor?

She waded out to the midpoint of the river, careful of the slippery rocks. The water was cool, but not particularly cold. It parted and eddied around her legs, and the brush of it against her skin was pleasantly refreshing.

"You should join me," she called back to Booth.

He looked up from where he was putting a pot of water on to boil. "I'm going to, just as soon as I get this set up."

She probably should have felt guilty about leaving him to deal with the water, but she didn't. And she should have offered to help, but she didn't do that, either. The sun was shining, the mosquitoes weren't bothering her, and while it was hot, it wasn't unbearably so. In fact now that they'd found the river she found that she was almost enjoying herself. Besides, if she had to be lost, she'd rather be lost with Booth than anybody else.

She glanced over to where he was taking off his shoes, noting his easy movements and natural, athletic grace. She wasn't a gambler, but even science acknowledged that it was occasionally necessary to extrapolate outcomes from insufficient or incomplete data. And based on the information currently available to her, she could determine with some degree of certainty that Booth loved her. She already knew that he was a good man, and that if she were ever to have children, she wanted him to be the father. Perhaps her concern that she was a poor risk was misplaced or overstated.

"Hey!" Booth's voice brought her head up with a start. "Why so serious all of a sudden?" He waded into the water, slipped once, and caught himself before she could comment. "Geez. It's like walking on ice."

"No, it isn't at all—" At his look, she interrupted herself. "Oh."

"Feels good, though."

"I agree. It feels very good."

He came over to stand beside her, followed her line of sight for a moment, then shook his head. Putting his hands on her shoulders, he turned her around to face downstream. "Never look back the way you came, Bones. Always look toward where you're going."

"Why does it matter whether I look upstream or down?"

"Because," he said. "You already know what's upstream. You came from there. You've seen it. But downstream ..." He made a wide, sweeping gesture with his arm. "Downstream is the future." He grinned at her, enthusiasm sparkling in his eyes. "It's adventure, Bones. The great unknown."

She tilted her head. He was being philosophical. She got that. But sometimes it was fun to tease him. "I think upstream's upstream, and downstream's downstream. That's what I think."

Hands crossed over his heart, Booth sighed theatrically. "Don't you get it? Downstream is Sankara."

Sometimes she wished she had a Booth to English dictionary. "I don't know what that means."

"Fortune and glory, kid. Fortune and glory."

Still baffled, she could only shake her head.

" _Raiders of the Lost Ark_? Come on, Bones. That thing's an archaeologist's mother lode. Tell me you've seen it."

"No, I haven't."

"Okay, so the first thing we watch when we get home is Grizzly Adams. But after that we're doing an Indiana Jones marathon. Parker will love it."

It amused her that he found it so necessary to remedy what he saw as her pop culture short-comings. "I think that would be quite enjoyable."

"Of course it will." He grinned at her. "We'll go all the way. Popcorn, Jujubees, Milk Duds ..."

She made a face at him. "That doesn't sound very healthy."

"That's the whole point, Bones." He splashed some water on her with his foot. "It isn't supposed to be healthy. It's supposed to be fun."

She splashed him back. "Won't Rebecca complain about us giving Parker all that sugar?"

"Nah. She knows the score." Bending, he filled his cupped hands with water. When he straightened, there was a look in his eyes that made her take a careful step back.

"Booth ..."

He ignored her, advancing to within a few inches of her position before coming to a stop. Water dripped from between his cupped hands, sparkling in the sunlight.

"Booth ..." She felt the grin spreading across her face despite her attempt to bite it back.

"Hmm?" He blinked at her, all childlike innocence. "Is something wrong, Bones?"

Taking another step back, she bent to fill her own hands with water. It was a bad move, but a calculated one. As she'd anticipated, she felt the cool wet slide of water at the back of her neck an instant later. Ignoring it, she snapped her hands forward and up before he could back off, then grinned triumphantly at his yelp of startled surprise.

Hands on her hips and legs spread for balance, she straightened and watched him wipe the water from his face.

"Dirty trick, Bones." But he didn't sound angry, and he was grinning when he advanced on her again, stalking her. She backed off, certain that if she let him catch her she'd regret it.

"I was only defending myself," she said, hands raised in mute surrender. But she was gauging their movements, trying to ease her way into shallow water while simultaneously luring him deeper.

"Right," he said, drawing out the single syllable in a disbelieving drawl. "And I'm the queen of Sheba."

"That would be impossible," she said, fully aware that he was being facetious. "Your shoulders are much too broad. Besides, if you were the Queen of Sheba, you would be several thousand years old. Though—" She tilted her head, pretending to consider him carefully, "Now that you mention it, I do see just the slightest hint of gray ..."

He lunged.

With a yelp of laughter, she leapt aside, slipped on the rocks, and would have gone down if Booth hadn't caught her. She came up facing him, still laughing, her fingers curling into the bend of his elbows. But as she found her footing and lifted her gaze to his, her laughter faded. He was staring at her, his eyes darkening with a hunger she realized she shared. Her breath lodged in her throat and her heart did a quick little two-step in her chest, her fingers tightening against his arms. She drew in her bottom lip, worrying at it with her teeth, and watched his gaze drop to her mouth. Then she was leaning forward. Or he was. Or maybe they both were. She didn't really know. She only knew that she very much wanted this kiss.

Instead he dropped his hands from her shoulders and turned away.

"I'd better go see if the water's boiling," he said.

Before she could respond he was moving off, leaving her blinking in surprised disappointment. She turned her back on him, not wanting him to see her reaction. She didn't blame him for retreating. He was only respecting her professed belief that a relationship between the two of them could never work. Hadn't she just that morning acknowledged that one of the things she most admired about him was the fact that he was an honorable man?

Back on dry ground, she pulled on her socks and shoes, noting that Booth had already done the same. When she finished, she tucked her knees up against her chest and wrapped her arms around them while she watched him position a fresh pot of water on the fire.

She felt like she should apologize, but she didn't know what for. And though he didn't seem angry, his jaw was tight, and he avoided looking at her as he added another stick of wood to the fire. The silence stretched, becoming more awkward with the passage of each successive minute. Searching for something to say, Brennan checked the afternoon sky, unsurprised to see clouds building in the east.

"Looks like it's going to storm," she said, careful to keep her tone neutral.

Booth glanced up. "I noticed that."

"Should we build a shelter?"

"I'd rather keep moving." He poured another batch of water into their bottles, capped them both, and crossed back to the river with the pot. When he returned, he sprinkled the water on the fire instead of putting it on to boil, even though their bottles weren't yet full. Brennan moved to help him, spreading and turning over the coals with one of the sticks he'd used to handle the pot.

Five minutes later they set off, the storm following them down the river until it broke over their heads in a near-silent deluge. They were soaked to the skin in seconds, but even then they didn't stop, only moved inland enough to put them safely out of the path of flash floods. Unfortunately, the vegetation was significantly thicker away from the river's edge. Booth hacked through it with the parang, setting a punishing pace.

She let him go for a while, sensing that he was working through frustrations he wasn't willing to discuss with her. But after slogging through the rain and mud for two hours her patience began to wane and she tapped him on the shoulder. If he wanted to keep going, fine, but not at this pace.

He turned, his voice almost drowned out by the first rumble of thunder they'd heard since the rain started. "What?"

"My turn." She had to shout to make herself heard.

"What about your hand?"

"Give me the knife, Booth."

"It's a parang."

They were stuck in the middle of an Indonesian jungle during a vicious thunderstorm, and he was the one arguing about vocabulary? "Give it to me," she repeated. "I can handle it."

He stared at her in silence for a long moment before he finally nodded. He was about to hand it to her when something moved behind his left shoulder in a way that was somehow wrong. Before she could do more than blink in confusion, there was a flash of lightning, an explosive crack of thunder, and the ground beneath Brennan's feet started to shift alarmingly. It wasn't another earthquake. She knew that right away. But during those first, terrifying seconds, she didn't know, and couldn't even begin to comprehend, why the world around her had exploded into life.

A nearby tree snapped, its trunk and branches shattering as the ground beneath it sheared away. Birds she hadn't noticed before took to the air in a cacophony of squawks and a frenzied rush of wings. Something screeched in alarm. Bird? Animal? In the midst of it all, Booth shouted something. A name. Only it wasn't hers, and that only added to her confusion. Who was Burke? Then he shoved her, hard, and she found herself falling backward even as her mind clicked into gear and she understood, finally what was happening.

Mudslide.

The ground fell away from her as she scrambled for something, anything, to hold on to, finally grabbing hold of a wild nutmeg tree just as the grating rush of dirt and mud finally eased. She straightened slowly, backing up a little and easing her grip until she was certain the ground beneath her feet was secure.

"Booth?"

The only response was another rumble of thunder, and the sound of the wind howling through the trees.

"Booth!" She swiped at her face with mud encrusted hands, blinking away raindrops and grit and what felt like spider webs. "Damn it, Booth! Answer me!"

He wasn't gone. He wasn't. He had to be here somewhere. But why didn't he answer her call? Fear clawed at her chest and closed her throat, but it wasn't the same kind of fear she'd felt in the caves.

This was different.

This was worse.

She forced her mind to acknowledge the impossible. The spot where Booth had been standing was gone, wiped away as if it had never existed. A sinkhole had opened up in its place. Which meant ... An image of the stark, unrelenting fear in his eyes as he'd shoved her to safety flashed through her mind, brilliant and terrifying as a bolt of lightning.

She dropped to her stomach and peered over the hole's muddy, jagged edge, struggling to make out details in the pouring rain.

"Booth! Talk to me!"

Endless seconds passed before his voice drifted up to her from somewhere below.

"I'm here, Bones." He sounded frustrated, but unhurt.

"Are you okay?"

There was a pause, another rumble of thunder, and then, "Yeah," he called back. "Just a little banged up. Nothing serious."

She seized on the sound of his voice, analyzed it, searched the tones for any hint of prevarication. "Can you climb out?"

"Not a chance." He was clearly annoyed.

Above her head the birds were settling back into the trees. She heard a faint rustle of wings. An indignant squawk.

"Do you still have the pack?" she called down, turning to practical matters now that she knew he was unhurt.

"Yeah, hang on. I'm going to try the rope." Then, a minute later, "Okay. Here it comes."

Ignoring the mud, she stretched out on her stomach, arms extended out and down into the hole. An instant later, the end of the coiled rope slapped against the edge of the sinkhole. She grabbed for it, missed, and swore as it slithered back down.

"Try again," she called.

She finally caught it on the third try. Slick with mud and weighted with water, it nearly slipped from her grasp, but she curled her fingers around it, clenched her jaw, and held on. "Got it."

Rope in hand, she sat up and looked around, her fingers loosening the coils as she evaluated her options. The only tree that was both close enough and sturdy enough was the one she'd held onto during the mudslide, but it was massive, its trunk easily five or six feet in circumference. She glanced down again, wondering how deep the sinkhole was..

Leaving most of the coiled rope on the ground, she got to her feet. Mud sucked at her shoes as she crossed to the tree. With a feeling of deja vu she secured one end of the rope using the same double twist and knot she'd used back at the cave.

When she was satisfied that the rope was secure, she called down to him. "All set."

"No," he called back, "no, we aren't." He sounded ... Weary? Resigned?

Back on her stomach, she peered down. "What's wrong?"

"It's about ten feet too short."

 _Oh._ She looked back, thinking. She'd used about fifteen feet of rope to secure it to the tree. If she untied it ... "Then I'll anchor you myself."

"No, you won't."

"Why not?"

"Because you'll just end up down here with me."

 _Now who was being stubborn_? "I know what I'm doing, remember?"

"That's great, Bones." He was using that tone that meant he was humoring her. She didn't like it when he humored her. "Maybe we'll try that after you prove that you can bench press my weight."

Irritated, she sat up. "So you're just going to stay down there?"

"Looks like it, yeah."

"Well, that's a bad idea."

"I don't have any better ones, do you?" There was a pause, then, "and no. You aren't going to anchor me. So don't even bother bringing it up again."

"Booth ..."

"No."

She knew that tone of voice. Frustrated, she swiped the rain out of her eyes and considered her options. Vines. If she gathered enough of them maybe she could extend the length of the rope. She scanned her surroundings. There were certainly plenty of vines nearby, but finding the quantity she needed with the appropriate tensile strength could prove difficult, especially since Booth had the parang.

Apparently she'd been quiet for too long, because Booth sounded worried when he called up to her again. "What are you doing?"

"Looking for some vines." She got to her feet. "I'm going to use them to lengthen the rope."

"Just don't grab hold of a snake by mistake, okay?"

She cast an annoyed glance back toward the hole. "I think I can tell the difference between a snake and a vine, Booth."

She started to move away, then stopped at the sound of his voice. "Lower the rope," he called. "I'll tie on the parang, and you can pull it up."

An image of the parang sliding free of the slimy, mud-encrusted rope and falling back toward him made her shudder, and she hurried back to the side of the hole. "Not yet," she called down. "Let me see what I can find, first."

"At least let me toss up my pocket knife."

"And risk losing it in all this mud? No." She glanced behind her again, then shook her head. "Give me a minute to look around."

In the end she settled for a collection of thin vines, cutting them with her teeth and ignoring the bitter taste of sap on her tongue. She carried them back to the edge of the sinkhole and settled down with her back against the nutmeg tree.

"Bones?" he called a moment later. "You up there?"

She shook her head. He was the one trapped at the bottom of a sink hole, and he was worried about her. "I'm right here, Booth."

"What are you doing now?"

"Braiding." Knotting three of the vines together at one end, she tucked them under her bent leg to hold them still while she worked.

There was a brief silence. Then, "I've been thinking."

"About?"

"I think you should leave me here and go for help."

She looked up, her fingers growing still, chilled by the mere thought of leaving without him. "No."

"Just listen to me, would you?" He sounded exasperated.

"I'll listen," she said, "but I won't change my mind." Picking up the vines again, she went back to braiding. He could talk all night if he wanted to. She wasn't going to leave him here alone.

"I've got the pack down here with me," he said, obviously striving for patience. "You've got no water, and no food."

"We can raise the pack up and down with the rope if we need to," she said. "Besides, I've got the river."As soon as she had three braids done she would plait them together. If her calculations were correct, the result would be strong enough to support his weight.

Booth continued his futile argument. "What if your brilliant idea with the vines doesn't work, Bones? Huh? What then?"

Brennan glanced up, only half listening as her eyes tracked the mud and water still sliding into the hole. What was the rate of flow? And was there an outlet at the bottom or not?

"Look," he went on when she didn't respond, "We can't be that far from the coast. You said it yourself. The island isn't that big. And once you get there you've got, at most, another day's walk back to camp."

She sighed. He wasn't going to let it go. "How much water is left in the bottles?" She was pretty sure she knew the answer. Since reaching the river, they hadn't worried about rationing. And it had been a hot day.

"Just under a liter."

"A day's worth if you're careful."

"About that."

"Today is Thursday." Her mind flew through the calculations. "Christmas is on Saturday, and nobody will be back at the dig until January third. Even if it only takes me a day to get to the coast I wouldn't get back here with a rescue party for at least a week. The math doesn't work, Booth."

She reached for more vines. They were difficult to work with, the fibers stiff and unyielding. She struggled with them while she waited for Booth's response, certain he wouldn't give up this easily.

"So you come back alone," he finally called back. "With fresh supplies."

Shaking her head, she flipped the vine in her left hand over its neighbor and tugged.

"We're still talking a minimum of four days." Right over center. Another tug. "I won't leave you here."

A glance at Booth's watch made her shake her head. The work was taking longer than she'd expected it to, and she already needed more vines. She had underestimated the degree to which braiding them would shorten them.

"I think this is going to work," she said aloud, "but I won't be able to finish before dark."

She pictured the look on his face, the way his brow would furrow as he pressed his hands against the mud walls and glared upward. Helpless wasn't a condition that would rest easily with him.

"Yeah," he said, and she imagined his shoulders rising in a deep sigh. "I wondered about that."

"Will you be able to sleep down there?"

"In eight inches of mud? Not likely."

"Then I'll stay awake, as well." It wouldn't be difficult. She had neither the means to build a shelter nor the will to set aside her work long enough to attempt it.

"Don't be stubborn, Bones. You need your rest."

"And I'll get some," she fired back. "Just as soon as you're out of there."

An hour of work had netted her two feet of double-braided vine. At that rate it would take five more hours to assemble the quantity she needed. She got up to gather more vines, stretching the kinks out of her back and shoulders as she went.

It occurred to her when she returned to her place beside the sinkhole that she'd not heard from Booth in a while, a fact that she found slightly disconcerting. She needed to keep him talking, if only to reassure herself that he was okay.

"Booth?"

"Yeah."

"Who's Burke?"

He didn't answer for so long that she started to think maybe he hadn't heard her, and when he finally did respond, there was an odd tension behind his words.

"Where did you hear that name?"

"From you." She let her hands settle and tilted her head toward the top of the sinkhole. "When you pushed me out of the way earlier. You called me Burke."

"He's ... Someone I knew in Afghanistan."

His use of the past tense made her uneasy. "Does he have something to do with your nightmare?"

"Really don't want to talk about that, Bones."

"Why not?"

"Because if I tell you what happened you're going to get all worried about me. And I have to go back."

So her assumptions had been correct. The nightmare was related to something that had happened to him in Afghanistan. And now she had a name. Burke. Her stomach twisted. He'd accepted his commission, at least in part, because of her.

"I told you about my Gravedigger nightmare," she said. "Even though I knew you would worry."

"That was different."

She shook her head. "No, it wasn't."

One minute passed. Then another. Her fingers worked the vines, bending and twisting almost automatically now, but when Booth remained stubbornly silent she set down her work and inched closer to the edge of the hole, peering down into the gathering darkness.

"Booth?"

"What?"

"Did the army really give you leave just because it's Christmas?"

"I'm here, aren't I?"

That didn't really answer her question. She tried again. "Muslims don't observe Christmas, so the Taliban wouldn't either."

No response.

"And if the army gave Christmas leave to everybody who asked for it they wouldn't have enough soldiers left to fight the war."

Still no response. She sighed, bit her lip, and decided to try one more time.

"Would a wounded soldier have a better chance of being granted holiday leave than an uninjured one would?"

"I wasn't wounded." His voice sounded sharp, hard, even angry. She fought the temptation to relent. She couldn't help him if he wouldn't tell her what had happened.

"There are different kinds of wounds." And sometimes the ones you couldn't see were worse than the ones you could. If, as she suspected, Booth's leave had been granted for medical reasons, the army must have thought he needed time away in order to heal. And he had come to her. Not Sweets or Cam or even Gordon Gordon. Her.

"No secrets, Booth. Isn't that what we said?"

There was another long silence, and Brennan returned to her braiding. If he still didn't wish to discuss the matter she would respect his decision. She tugged the left-most vine over the center. Then right over center. Then left again ...

"Promise you won't interrupt until I'm done," he said at last.

She didn't understand why it mattered, but she nodded anyway before remembering that he couldn't see her. "I promise."

She cycled through three more twists of the vines before he spoke again.

"Most of the men who come through my classes are experienced soldiers." He sounded strangely detached, as if the only way he could tell the story was by distancing himself from it. "But I also get kids straight out of basic training, especially if they've had some kind of experience back home. I get three weeks to turn them into competent snipers before sending them back to their units.

"Part of the training involves field experience. That isn't supposed to be my job, but we're chronically understaffed, and sometimes I get orders to lead a training run."

Then, as if anticipating her protest before she could voice it, "They're supposed to be low-risk scenarios, Bones. Sort of like in-country orientation sessions."

There was a short silence, and she pictured him taking a breath, organizing his thoughts before he continued.

"Three weeks ago Sergeant Holman and I got orders to take half a dozen green recruits out on a routine ground patrol."

Finishing another braid, Brennan set it aside and picked up a fresh trio of vines, working by rote, her attention focused on the sound of his voice.

"The chopper set us down in the outskirts of this dusty little village in what felt like the middle of nowhere. There were a couple dozen homes, some shops, and a little one-room schoolhouse—a real one-horse town. And while the locals didn't exactly greet us with open arms, everything seemed pretty peaceful. Holman and I, though, we knew better than to relax our guard, so when Private Burke asked if he could go help some kids fly their kites I approved the request, but I also ordered Holman, Garcia, and Lee to go with him."

One of the vines opened a shallow, stinging cut across Brennan's palm, and she hissed softly, the sound covered by the patter of rain and the whine of insects. She flexed her hands, stretching the ache from the joints, picked the vines back up, and went back to work.

"Standing orders over there are a mess." There was bitterness in his voice now, along with anger. "I mean, it sounds easy enough—earn the trust of the locals while rooting out the insurgents. But how the hell are you supposed to do that when half the locals _are_ insurgents?"

When he went on there was fresh tension in Booth's voice, as if he were fighting the memories even as he forced himself to relate them to her.

"It was a school yard, Bones. A fucking school yard. And it was the first time those kids had played with kites since coalition forces cleared the area. Some of my guys had kids of their own. Holman had two. Garcia's wife had just sent pictures of their new baby. And Lee was engaged. And those kids ... They were so excited. They were finally going to get to fly the crappy little paper kites that had been outlawed while the Taliban was in power.

"I posted the rest of the patrol at lookout points and told them to pay attention, but I was the one who saw it first. It was _me_ , Bones. _I_ screwed up."

"What happened?" she asked, hoping she sounded supportive instead of demanding. He wasn't to blame. She was certain of it. But she needed more evidence before she'd be able to find a way to convince him.

"There was this kid. Twelve? Thirteen? He walked with a limp, and his left arm was messed up, like maybe he'd broken it and it hadn't been set right. He came down the road, all smiles. I remember him calling out to his classmates, and them answering back. It sounded like they were teasing him, but I didn't think anything of it. Kids will be kids, you know?

"But these two clerics a couple of doors down from where I was standing guard ... They'd been arguing about something. I didn't understand the words, because they were speaking Dari, but the tone was clear enough. Anyway, when they saw the kid coming, they got quiet all of a sudden and just stared at him. It was a clue, Bones. Big as that fucking iceberg that took out the Titanic. And I missed it."

Booth's next words were uttered in a voice rife with self-recrimination. "He walked into that school yard, and he turned around, and he looked at me. He _looked_ at me, Bones. Stared me right in the eye. And he fucking _smiled_." Booth hesitated, as if he was gathering the energy to finish it. His last words were choked, his voice raw with anguish. "Then he blew himself up."

An image flashed through Brennan's imagination of bright bits of colored paper floating through dust-filled air, of the broken and burned bodies of children. Her chest ached, tears forming in her eyes. No wonder he'd reacted to the butterflies the way he had. She remembered Hank's poignant request all those months ago. _If he needs it, you'll hold him?_ She wanted very much to comply, but she had to rely on words instead, and never before had spoken language felt like such an inadequate vehicle for communication.

She chose her words with care, weighing each one in her mind before saying it aloud. "But to suspect a child ... That's not you, Booth. Even in war, you could never endanger a child. And to believe one could be so indoctrinated that he would gladly die for an adult cause—" she shook her head "—not seeing that doesn't make you a bad soldier. It makes you a good man."

"Call it whatever you want, Bones. Four good men and a dozen innocent kids still died because I didn't do my job."

She'd never heard him sound so guilt-ridden and defeated. She should've listened when he'd told her he didn't want to talk about it, should've waited until a more appropriate time, but she'd had no idea, no inkling of understanding, as to just how bad it was. Now she struggled for the right words and found herself wishing, surprisingly, for Sweets.

"Those people _didn't_ die because of you." How could she make him see that the fault didn't lie with him for not stopping the unstoppable? The fault lay with those who'd done the killing. "They died because of a suicide bomber. They died because the Taliban convinced an injured child that his death was more valuable than his life, and that dying for their cause was the most honorable path, both for him and for his family. _None_ of that is your fault."

"Bones ... I attended the briefings. I knew the Taliban was using kids. I knew they'd begun using the sick and disabled as suicide bombers. Hell, I'd just spent three weeks telling Burke and Garcia and Lee not to trust _anybody_! And yet when push came to shove I just stood there."

Maybe facts and logic were the keys to helping him. Maybe he'd known that. Maybe it was why he'd come to her.

"How far away was the child when you first noticed him?"

"Not as far as he should've been."

"What does that mean?"

"It means I should've noticed him sooner."

"Why?"

"I just should've okay? That's my job. It's what I'm trained to do."

She considered that, then shook her head. "Were there other people around?"

"What do you mean?"

"You mentioned the clerics, and the children at the school, but was there anybody else?"

"Of course there was. It was market day."

"So it was crowded."

"As crowded as a town that size ever gets ... Yeah, I guess."

She tried to picture it in her mind, the busy street, the disabled child ... "He probably didn't wish to be detected," she observed.

"I'm sure he didn't," came Booth's sarcastic reply. "It'd kind of defeat the purpose, wouldn't it?"

She tried a different tactic. "If you had suspected his intentions, what would you have done?"

"According to protocol, citizens who display suspicious behavior are entitled to three warnings. If they still don't stop, you shoot to wound, not to kill." It was his teaching voice, didactic and slightly patronizing, but she didn't let it bother her.

"Would he have stopped the first time you ordered him to?"

There was a silence, then ... "Probably not."

"The second?"

"No." Now he sounded exasperated. "The goal of a suicide bomber is to place himself as close as possible to the target before detonating the explosives—and the Taliban knows the three strikes rule as well as I do."

"Could the—" she needed to depersonalize the bomber, convince Booth to view him as a criminal rather than a child, "—perpetrator have made it all the way to the school yard by the time you gave the third warning?"

"Maybe," Booth said, the doubtful tones wrapped in what she suspected was a sigh. "But he would have had to run."

She nodded, thinking. "You said he had a limp."

"He did."

"Was his mobility sufficiently impaired to preclude running?"

"That's just it. I don't know!"

She heard the frustration in his voice, but she didn't know any other way to help him except to conduct a rational, empirical analysis of the events in question. Still, even empirical analysis sometimes required an element of informed conjecture.

"If you had issued your first warning when the clerics stopped arguing, could you have prevented detonation?"

"Hypotheticals, Bones? You never used to like those."

"You're correct. Under normal circumstances I find them both misleading and inconclusive. But in a situation like this they may be the only way to arrive at a reasonable conclusion." She finished another braid and picked up two others, working by touch now that darkness had fallen. "And you haven't answered the question."

"The base psychiatrist asked me the same thing," he said. "You haven't been reading psych books without telling me, have you?"

"No," she said indignantly. "Psychology is a—"

"I know. Soft science." There was a lighter note to his voice, almost as if he might be smiling. "And the answer is probably not."

"Then is it possible that instead of experiencing feelings of guilt for what you incorrectly perceive as a personal failure it would be more rational to express anger toward the people who were actually at fault?" She wasn't good with feelings, and it made her vaguely uncomfortable to view what had happened to him through that lens. But it was the lens he lived by, and she would willingly subject herself to a certain amount of discomfort if it helped him.

"Sweets? Is that you up there?"

"There's no need to cast insults." She grinned as she plaited another set of vines. "I'm simply observing that your feelings of self-recrimination might be both counter-productive and unnecessarily self-destructive."

"Right. I should just tell myself not to feel guilty and be done with it."

"No," she said, ignoring the sarcasm in his tone, "I don't think it's that easy. You're a loving father. You would do anything for your son, even if it meant dying. It doesn't surprise me that you would find it impossible to understand people who don't feel the same way about children, or that having misjudged a tragic situation, you would hold yourself responsible. But that doesn't mean you actually _are_ responsible."

"Maybe if I'd been thinking with my head instead of my heart like you're always telling me to do things would've turned out differently."

"I don't believe that to be the case. The facts seem to indicate that events almost certainly would have transpired in the same way, even if your suspicions had been aroused."

"Wait a minute. Are you actually implying that it might not have been a mistake to think with my heart instead of my head?"

She smiled at the disbelief in his voice. "It might even have saved your life."

"How so?"

"It's obvious, isn't it? If you had perceived the presence of a threat you would have risked your life to neutralize it—despite the high probability of failure." She was certain she was correct in that assessment, and the mere thought of it sent an icy chill through her.

"I would have done whatever I had to, yes."

There was no hesitation in his somber reply, and she hadn't expected any. He was, after all, a hero by nature. But after they got out of the jungle he would return to Afghanistan. Would guilt over what had happened in that little village drive him to take unnecessary risks?

"As sorry as I am that so many people died," she said, wishing she was better at putting her feelings into words. "I am very, very glad that you weren't one of them."

"Thank you, Bones. That's good to know."

They fell silent for a while after that. It was still raining, but Brennan had long since ceased to care. Her fingers were raw from the work, bleeding in places, and her joints ached from being held at the same angle for so long. But she kept at it, and the pile of completed braids continued to grow. She was almost out of vines, though, and in the darkness it was impossible to know for certain if she'd made enough.

"Marco ..." The single word, drifting through the mist-laden night, made her smile.

"Polo ..." Pushing herself onto her knees, she rested her hands at the edge of the sinkhole and leaned forward. "You're awake."

"I told you, Bones. Eight inches of mud. Hell, probably closer to ten, by now. Should do wonders for my complexion."

"I don't understand. Why would you put your face in it?"

"I'm not, Bones. Just ... Talk to me, okay? It's boring as hell down here."

"Okay." Rain splashed against her splayed fingers, ran in rivulets between them, and slid silently into the hole. Lifting one hand, she pushed wet hair back from her face. "What would you like to talk about?"

"Anything you want."

"Do you want to talk about your nightmare some more?"

"No."

 _Well. That was certainly definitive._ She twisted her head around, her eyes settling on the shadowed pile of braided vines.

"I've almost finished braiding the extension. I'm quite satisfied with it."

"That's good, Bones. That's real good."

Another pause. She'd never been good at small talk. Plus, she was tired, wet, hungry, and worried—none of which seemed like appropriate topics for discussion.

"Listen. Bones ..." She could hear the sigh in his voice, and the exhaustion behind it. "I'm sorry."

"For what?"

"It's my fault we're in this mess. We knew the rain was coming. We should've sheltered and waited it out."

"No, I understand." Returning to her spot, she tied off the last braid and added it to the pile beside her, her fingers sifting through the collection as she did a final count. "This hasn't been a good trip for you. It's perfectly understandable that you would be anxious to get back." She finished counting and picked up one of the vines, stretching and twisting it in her hands to test its strength.

"How do you _do_ that?"

She knew him well enough by now that she could picture him shaking his head at her. "How do I do what?"

"How do you stay so damned reasonable all the time?"

"I don't," she said, mildly surprised by the question. "My behavior is frequently influenced by irrational and emotional reactions to external stimuli."

"Oh?" Now he was the one who sounded surprised. "Because it seems to me that you keep yourself under pretty tight control."

"That's because I've come to realize over the years that the open display of emotion makes one vulnerable to contempt. But having developed a certain level of self-control doesn't necessarily equate to not experiencing strong emotion."

A light breeze stirred the leaves of the trees, dumping a fresh cascade of water over her head and shoulders. She blinked, pushed her hair back, and shook her head. There'd been a time when she loved the rain. Tonight she was learning to hate it.

"So tell me about these irrational responses of yours." It sounded like a challenge, or a dare, as if he didn't believe her.

The memory came easily, "I get angry when somebody hurts a child. Remember Director Cullen's little girl? I was very angry at the person responsible for what happened to her."

"Bzz."

Puzzled, she looked up from squeezing water out of the hem of her shirt. "What does that mean?"

"Not an example of an irrational response. It makes perfect sense for you to get angry at somebody who commits a crime, especially when innocent people get hurt. Try again."

"Ripley."

"The dog?"

"Yes. I grew attached to him, even though I knew he was a killer."

"Nope."

"What do you mean, no?"

"Kids and animals, Bones. They don't count."

"Oh, now you're going to make up rules?"

"Everybody loves kids and animals. It's instinct. Human nature."

She sighed. He wasn't making this easy. "Okay, then. What about my dad?"

"What about him?"

"Well, despite what he did, and the fact that I know he would do it again ... I still love him."

"Of course you do. He's your father.

"Yes, but he killed somebody."

"Maybe a lot of somebodies."

"Yes."

"And he abandoned you."

"Yes, but he came back."

"Okay, then. I suppose I'll have to concede. You have, indeed, experienced an irrational emotional response."

Ordinarily she'd be offended by such an accusation, but somehow Booth made it sound like something she should be proud of. It wasn't the first time he'd turned one of her assumptions inside out, but it always surprised her a little when he did it.

"Can I ask you a question, Bones?"

Their responses were getting slower, softer. Brennan pushed wet hair off her face and scrubbed at her aching eyes with hands that smelled of sap.

"What?"

She tugged over a handful of braided vines, scrunched them into a rough pile, and lay down, using the braids as a sort of pillow and turning her face away from the falling rain. It was too miserable a night to sleep, but it helped to stretch out.

"Did Max love your mom?"

Memories flooded through her. Her parents, dancing in the moonlight. A hand-carved dolphin—her dad had called it a just-because gift. Late night whispers. Her mother's giggle on the stairs.

"Yes," she said, "he did. Very much so."

"But neither one of them was perfect, right?"

"No, of course not." Her mother had been a terrible cook. And her dad once tried to fix a broken pipe and ended up flooding the upstairs bathroom, instead.

"Your parents led dangerous lives before they had you and Russ."

"Yes, they did."

"Your dad must have known that something could go wrong."

"Something did go wrong. My mother was murdered." She didn't think it would ever not hurt to think about that.

"Do you think that if your father had known what would happen he would have decided not to marry your mom?"

It wasn't something she'd ever thought about. Her parents just were. She closed her eyes, thinking about her dad. Remembering her childhood. They'd been happy, the four of them. It hadn't been perfect, though. Her parents had fought sometimes. And Russ had been in trouble a lot, even then. But she had never once doubted that her parents loved each other. She wondered briefly if her dad still missed her mom, then thought about the dolphins he laid at her grave every year.

"No," she said. "I don't think he would have decided that at all."

His voice was gentle when he went on. "So it was worth the risk for your dad."

"Yes." She thought for a minute. Then, whether it was because it was late and her defenses were down, or just because she didn't have to see his face while she said it ... "But my mother wasn't me."

His response was almost instantaneous. "And I'm not Max."

"No, but you were right about me."

"When?"

"When you said I was a cold fish."

"When did I say that?"

"During the Arrington case. We had a fight. You called me a cold fish, and I called you a stupid man."

"Do you still think I'm a stupid man?"

"I never really thought you were a stupid man, Booth. I was just angry."

"Well I never thought you were a cold fish."

"But I _am_ a cold fish."

Even from here she imagined she could hear his sigh. "You aren't ... Can we just drop the whole fish thing?"

"Why?"

"Because I don't care!"

Startled by his vehemence, she drew her hand back from the edge of the sinkhole and sat up.

"That night," he said, "when I told you I wanted to try a relationship with you. Did I ever once say anything about you having to change?"

"No, but—"

"No buts. Don't you get it? I don't care if you change, Bones. I didn't fall in love with some idealized version of you. I fell in love with _you_. Annoying, exasperating, stubborn, occasionally insensitive, often clueless _you_!"

Stung, she glared down into the darkness. "If you truly believe that I'm annoying and clueless, why would you want to engage in a relationship with me?"

"Maybe because you're also brilliant, and funny, and so god damned sexy that half the time I can't think straight around you." There was a short silence. Then, in more subdued tones, "And maybe it's just because we're better together than either one of us is apart."

"We are good together, aren't we?"

"Yeah, Bones. We are."

"And you really don't care that I don't have your kind of open heart?"

"No, I really don't."

She felt herself start to smile. "And you still want to be with me, even after everything that's happened?"

"Yeah, I do." There was a smile in his voice, too. And a kind of relief. "So does this mean you'll think about it?"

She wanted to laugh outright at that. "I haven't stopped thinking about it since you asked the question."

"And ...?"

"And I think you're impatient, sarcastic, bossy, quick to jump to conclusions, and often condescending."

"So ..."

"So?"

"So is 'impatient, sarcastic, bossy, quick to jump to conclusions, and often condescending' a deal breaker?"

She was exhausted. She was hungry. Booth was trapped at the bottom of a muddy sinkhole in a remote, Indonesian jungle. It was the middle of the night, it was raining, her fingers were pruney, and she'd discovered that vine sap was an acceptable alternative for Super Glue.

"Bones ..."

Her continued silence was making him impatient and nervous. She knew that. Still she hesitated. Irrational didn't even begin to describe the decision they were making here.

Finally she took a deep breath. "Apparently not," she said, her heart racing the same way it had when she'd been seven and Russ had dared her into leaping off the ten-meter platform at the county pool.

"Apparently not what?" The burgeoning hope in his voice made her smile.

"Apparently it's not a deal breaker."


	7. Chapter 7

It seemed like it took forever for morning to finally arrive, and when it did it was gray and rainy. True to her word, Bones had stayed awake with him all night, though she'd gotten quiet shortly before the sun came up.

As soon as he could see his hand in front of his face, he called out to her.

"Hey. Bones. You alive up there?"

"Or course I am." She sounded tired, but alert. "I'm knotting the vines together now. Give me a few minutes to get things organized."

He lifted one foot, then the other, freeing each from the sucking mud before putting it back down with a grimace. He wanted a bath. And dry clothes. But more than that he wanted to look into her eyes and see for himself that he hadn't dreamed that miraculous middle-of-the-night conversation.

"Okay," she called down a little while later. "I think that's got it. I'm lowering it now."

He looked up, blinking rain out of his eyes, then leaned back when dark green jungle vines slithered down the muddy wall toward him.

By the time it stopped, several feet of double-braided vine lay in the mud at his feet, with another dozen or so feet extending above his head to where she'd tied it on to the rope. "What'd you do, Bones, braid the whole jungle?"

The rope shifted, then settled against the wall again as she adjusted it from above. "I wanted to make sure it was long enough."

Shaking his head, he wrapped his hand around the twisted vines and gave an experimental tug. Somewhere up top, something creaked.

"Everything okay up there?"

There was a brief silence before her response came back. "Yes," she said. "The knots are holding."

Her voice was hoarse from talking all night, but then so was his.

"All right, then. I'm coming up. Keep an eye on things up there, all right?"

"I will. Booth ..." She sounded tense. Worried. "Be careful."

"I'll be fine, Bones. Now get back. If this thing snaps or the edge of the hole collapses, I don't want you anywhere close."

"I know how to braid, Booth. The rope isn't going to break."

Maybe not, but the thought of what could happen if the edge gave way made his heart snag in his throat. "Bones, could you just, please, get back?"

There was a short silence and then her voice, obviously irritated. "Okay, okay! I'm back."

Before starting his climb, Booth wedged the knife between the straps of the backpack. It was the easiest way to carry it back up, and he damn sure wasn't going to leave it down here.

The vines stretched alarmingly when they first took his weight, but Bones had done good work, and the rope held despite the number of times his feet slid out from under him on the steep, muddy slope. When he finally reached the top she was waiting for him, and he felt a brief flash of annoyance at the realization that she hadn't moved back after all. But at his first glimpse of her face his irritation vanished. She looked exhausted.

As soon as he was close enough she caught his arms and pulled, and he ended up lying on the ground beside her. Ignoring the mud and rain, he dropped the pack and rolled to his feet. Then he turned and pulled her up, too. Her arms shot around him in a tight hug. She was trembling, but then he was, too. He closed his eyes, drew in a breath, and held her close, glad to be on solid ground again.

"Are you okay?" she asked, her voice muffled against his shoulder.

"Yeah, Bones," he said gently. "I'm fine." Now that he no longer had to control his feelings, he found their intensity a little disconcerting. He lowered his head over hers where it rested in the hollow of his shoulder, laying his cheek against her wet hair and stroking his hand along her spine. This moment, right here and right now, was why he'd come to the island, and it was worth every heartbeat of what had come before.

She lifted her head. "You aren't hurt?"

Her gaze was searching, worried, and he framed her face between his palms, pushing her hair back with his fingers. She was so pale. He brushed his thumbs over the shadows that lurked beneath her eyes.

"Not hurt," he said. "Just muddy." He grinned suddenly. "And pruney."

She'd always had very expressive eyes, and he watched a myriad of emotions flit through them before she cast a glance toward the steel-gray skies, her arms loosening and falling away from him as she stepped back.

"The rain will wash away the mud." Her voice had gone oddly stiff. Formal.

She reached for the rope, but he stopped her, ignoring her faint protest as he took her hands in his and examined the damage the vines had done. Her skin was crisscrossed with shallow cuts, some of which still bled pink in the falling rain. He brushed his thumb over a patch of sticky sap, thought about the extra feet of rope, and shook his head.

"That looks like it hurts," he said. He reached down and pulled the bandanna out of the pack. He folded it into a triangle, then rolled that into a long, narrow strip which he wrapped twice around her right hand before tying it off. "As soon as this rain stops we'll boil some water and get these cuts cleaned and bandaged properly."

"They're just scrapes, Booth. Stop worrying." Eyes averted, she tugged her hands free.

Her careless attitude annoyed him. Didn't she know how dangerous this place was, how many different ways the weather alone could kill her? He struggled to keep his voice even, aware that neither one of them was firing on all cylinders.

"And we're in the middle of an Indonesian jungle, along with God knows how many different kinds of bacteria."

Without answering, she dropped to her knees and reached for the rope, dragging at it with short, sharp tugs until it cleared the edge of the sink hole. Then, still without speaking, she began working at the knots that bound rope and vines together. He watched her, noting the nervous twitch of her fingers against the knots and the way she wouldn't quite meet his eyes. What the hell was wrong with her?

Making an abrupt decision, Booth yanked the machete free of the pack and strode to her side, severing the braided vines several inches from where her hands had stilled against the highest knot. Then he tossed the knife aside and pulled her to her feet. When he looked into her eyes, he knew. She was backing off. Throwing up walls again.

"What's going on?" he asked, trying for a patience he didn't feel as dread curled in his stomach.

"What do you mean?" Her gaze dropped away. She started coiling the muddy rope.

He studied the jerky movements of her arms and hands, the tension in her neck and shoulders, and shook his head. "Why are you acting this way?"

"What way?"

"Like a long-tailed cat in a room full of rocking chairs."

She tilted her head, bemused. "Why would anybody put a cat in a room full of rocking chairs?"

Sometimes he wanted to shake her. Instead he blew out a frustrated sigh. "It's something Pops says sometimes. It means you're nervous. Jumpy."

"No, I'm not. I just want to get this packed up so we can get moving again."

"Bones ... Just ... Damn it! Would you hold on for a second?" He took the rope away from her and dropped it on the ground, well back from the edge of the sink hole. "Now," he said, wrapping his hands around her shoulders and holding her still. "Talk to me."

She glanced up at him, then away, worrying at her lip with her teeth.

"Have you changed your mind?" he asked, forcing the words from a throat suddenly dry with fear. "Do you regret what you said to me last night?"

"No!" Her vehemence seemed to startle her almost as much as it did him. "No, I don't regret it," she said more quietly. "But Booth ... I'm no good at relationships." Her eyes flickered to his and away, but not before he saw the self-doubt in their depths. "What if I'm right? What if I really can't do this?"

He stopped her with his hand at her chin, drawing her face up until he could look into her eyes. "Don't you think I worry about that, too?"

Her expression flashed from worried to defensive in an instant, and Booth swallowed a curse. They weren't even fifteen minutes into this thing and he was already putting his foot in his mouth. He hurried to set her straight before she got it into that convoluted brain of hers that he expected her to fail.

"I mean," he said, enunciating carefully. "Don't you think I worry that _I'll_ screw this up, just as much as you worry that you will?"

She shook her head, her eyes still not quite meeting his. "I don't know."

"I do, Bones. This thing between us ... I don't think I've ever wanted a relationship to work as badly as I want this one to."

"But—"

"No. Listen to me. Please, for the sake of all that's holy, stop trying to cross bridges we can't even see, yet."

"I don't know what that means." She was gazing up at him with that puzzled look in her eyes that he loved so much, and if it hadn't been almost a week since his mouth had seen a toothbrush he would have kissed her. He settled for a faint smile instead.

"It means you should stop thinking so hard."

She studied him for a minute, sighed, and then nodded uncertainly. "I'll try."

"That's fair." He touched his forehead to hers and felt her relax against him, her arms finding their way around his waist as he pulled her into a tight hug.

Not until he was sure that they were okay did he step back, pick up the rope, and drape its muddy, loosely coiled length over his shoulder. He didn't want to leave it behind, but he didn't want the gooey mess in the pack, either. As he reached for the pack and machete, he looked over at Bones. "Think you can hike for a while?"

"Of course," she said, though he could hear the exhaustion in her voice. She tilted her head back and to the right. "I saw an animal trail over there last night when I was collecting vines. I think it parallels the river."

"It might." And there was no way in hell he was going to hike the riverbank in this weather. He wasn't interested in adding a flash flood to his collection of adventures for this trip. "Why don't you lead the way?"

She nodded and set out, but she moved slowly, her footsteps heavy and plodding. They were both tired. They'd not eaten since the previous morning, and despite the rain, they'd be worrying about dehydration soon if they didn't get more drinking water. They also needed to get dry.

They'd been hiking for more than an hour when Booth spied a small bamboo structure several yards from the path.

"Bones. Hold up."

She stopped walking and turned to look back at him. Her eyes were sunken, her shoulders slumped with exhaustion. "What?"

He pointed out the hut. "Wait there while I check it out."

Dropping the pack, he freed the machete and approached the crude shelter. He moved slowly, alert for any sign of trouble, but he reached the hut without encountering anything more dangerous than spider webs. As soon as he was sure it was safe, he waved Bones over to join him.

The little three-sided shelter was roofed with palm fronds, and it had a split-bamboo floor that ran from the back wall to a spot just past the midpoint of the roof, leaving a dry area at the front for a small fire pit.

"We'll stay here for a while," Booth said as Bones came up behind him. "I'll build a fire, and we can dry off and get some rest."

She nodded. "This is man-made," she observed as she dropped to the floor inside.

"Hopefully whoever owns it won't mind if we borrow it for a while." He looked over to where she sat, her legs curled under her body and her shoulders slumped forward. She'd rested her hands across her thighs, and the cuts and welts from the vines were clearly evident. The remains of the insect bite were still there, too, just visible beyond the edge of the bandanna. Her hand didn't look swollen anymore, but he'd bet it still hurt like a sonofabitch.

"Take off your shoes and socks," he said, ignoring his own exhaustion. "I'll get a fire started."

He worked quickly, laying the fire just beyond the edge of the hut's floor, but despite the fact that it only took him a few minutes to get it going Bones was already asleep when he turned to check on her, her head pillowed on her folded arms, her knees tucked up against her chest. The position made her look childlike. Vulnerable.

Her shoes and socks lay abandoned nearby. Booth arranged them near the fire, then took off his own footwear and set it out to dry, as well. That done, he reached for the day pack and pulled out the insect repellent.

Bones didn't even twitch when he smoothed the thick cream over her feet and ankles, but he resisted the temptation to linger over the simple task. There'd be time for that later. Right now he was more interested in keeping her safe. As soon as her feet were protected he reached for her hands, but it didn't seem like a good idea to rub chemicals into the broken skin, so he only examined them, his fingertips gliding over the assortment of scrapes and cuts with the same care he might use on an injured bird.

All those vines. She'd braided far more than they'd needed. And the ends had been ragged, not clean as they would've been if they'd been cut with a knife. His gaze rose to her face, his fingers stilling against her hands as he realized that she must have used her teeth to cut them. He shook his head and allowed himself a faint smile. She might not be ready to tell him that she loved him, but he didn't for a second doubt that she did.

Finished with her hands, Booth reached out to push damp tendrils of hair away from her face and neck. And now he did linger, smoothing the lotion over her skin with slow, even strokes of his fingertips while he studied her. Even in sleep, her hair limp and stringy from too much rain and too little shampoo, she was a beautiful woman.

Booth yawned hugely and reached over to add more wood to the fire. Clouds of smoke rose up from the damp bamboo, then thinned as the wood took the flame. Satisfied, he slathered a thin coat of bug stuff on his own skin, dropped the tube into the day pack, and lay down beside Bones.

She settled against his chest without waking up. Easing his right arm under her head, he wrapped his left around her waist and tucked her body close against his. Beyond the little shelter it continued to rain, the drops pattering against the underbrush with a steady, soothing rhythm that made him yawn again. He breathed in wood smoke and bug spray, imagined himself back home, and let his eyes drop closed.

It was Bones, moving out of his arms and sitting up, that woke him some time later. He blinked sleep out of his eyes and propped himself up on his elbow, his left hand finding its way to the small of her back. Her muscles were tight beneath his palm. Spine stiff, she stared out into the jungle.

"Something wrong?" he asked.

"I heard something." Her voice was low. Tense.

"What kind of something?"

"Voices."

The way she said it, her tone hushed and worried, brought him up beside her. Instinctively, he reached for the knife.

"Wouldn't voices be a good thing?" he whispered.

She shook her head. "Not necessarily."

Booth handed over her shoes and socks, then donned his own, head cocked, listening.

They appeared without warning. One minute he and Bones were alone in the misty gray afternoon, and the next they were surrounded by a dozen men, all of them bare-chested and angry.

And all of them armed with gleaming, razor-sharp parangs.

Booth eased to his feet and moved in front of Bones, ignoring her faint sound of protest. When she tried to slip past him, he shot out his arm, holding her back.

"No," he said, keeping his voice low despite the tension that thrummed through him. "Stay back."

"And let you die for me?" she hissed. "I'm not blind, Booth. And I can count. There's no way you can protect me from all of them."

The men arrayed in front of them exchanged glances. There was a short, sharp discussion in a language Booth didn't recognize. Then one of them, shorter than Booth but lean as a panther and with a jagged scar across his right shoulder, gestured toward the knife Booth still held in his hand. Reflexively, Booth tightened his grip.

"Give it to him," Bones whispered. "If they don't see us as a threat they won't hurt us."

Booth answered without taking his eyes from the semi-circle of menacing natives. "And maybe if they _do_ see us as a threat they won't hurt us."

"Twelve of them and two of us," she shot back. "Do you really think we have a chance?"

Chance or not, Booth was damned if he was going to let anyone lay a hand on her without a fight.

But apparently Bones had other ideas. Before he could stop her she ducked under his arm, snatched the knife from his hand, and offered it to their captors. He wanted to strangle her.

"Damn it, Bones! What the hell are you thinking?"

She shot a glare over her shoulder. "I'm trying to keep us alive."

"By disarming me?"

"Yes."

The dark-eyed native with the scar accepted the weapon in silence, flipped it end for end with an expert twist of his wrist, and passed it to one of the men behind him, his gaze never once leaving Booth's.

Booth pulled Bones behind him again, and only then did he break eye contact with the man who appeared to be their leader, his gaze darting from one potential adversary to the next. The eyes were key. They always gave the first hint of a man's intent. Booth watched the men's gazes flicker from him to Bones and back again, saw the unspoken questions, the simmering anger. He and Bones had trespassed. That much was pretty clear. The question was, what was the Maluccan penalty for breaking and entering?

Scar waved them out of the shelter.

"They want us to go with them," Bones whispered behind him.

"You think?" Then he sighed. Every time he thought they'd overcome the last obstacle this damned island could throw at them something else went wrong. He reached for the pack, only to shake his head when one of the natives snatched it away. So. No weapon. No survival pack. And when Booth reached down to pick up the rope, a third native took that away, as well.

They couldn't take his hands, though, and his hand-to-hand combat skills were freshly honed.

"Stop it," Bones said under her breath.

"Stop what?"

"Sizing them up. You can't fight them all, Booth, and if you get yourself killed because of that damned white knight syndrome of yours I'll never forgive you."

She sounded angry, but there were tears behind the words, and when he looked over at her, he saw them shimmering in her eyes, as well. Bones rarely cried, and never without cause.

With a sigh and a reluctant nod he moved out of the shelter, but he kept her close, linking his fingers with hers and directing a pointed stare at Scar, whose gaze shifted to their joined hands, then back up again. Booth saw understanding dawn in the man's dark eyes and felt sure that for now at least, Bones would be safe.

Two of the men, youths who moved with a kind of nervous excitement Booth had often seen in his recruits, put out the fire. Then Scar said something, and the group rearranged itself, surrounding Booth and Bones and prodding them into motion.

It occurred to Booth that they must make an odd procession. He and Bones were a mess, and despite his initial bravado Booth knew he was too weak to put up much of a fight against even the smallest of the whipcord lean natives. Nevertheless, their captors were wary, restless, and he kept Bones close, his fingers linked tightly with hers as they trudged through the jungle.

Booth had no idea how long they'd slept before they'd been discovered, but it probably hadn't been more than a couple of hours, so it didn't surprise him when Bones stumbled on a tree root, righted herself with a soft curse, and gave him a faint, apologetic smile. Dropping her hand, he wrapped his arm around her waist instead, something she would've objected to under ordinary circumstances, but now she only leaned into his support without comment.

An hour into their trek the rain stopped and the sun came out, turning the jungle into a steam bath. Booth kept a close eye on Bones. She was stumbling more often and sweating profusely. If they didn't stop soon, he was afraid she would collapse. He wasn't doing so well, either. At this point, they were both running on little more than adrenalin and grim determination.

The sun had passed its zenith when they finally reached a small village. Booth saw a scattering of bamboo huts, a large, open pavilion, and a well-used fire pit. A handful of children darted in and out among the trees, and a group of women knelt on a circle of reed mats, working on something Booth couldn't see.

The women looked up when the men pushed Booth and Bones ahead of them into the clearing, but Booth hardly noticed, because as soon as they stopped moving Bones went down, her legs folding underneath her, her breath whispering out on a sigh through dry, cracked lips.

He dropped down beside her, his arms going around her shoulders. Fear pounded through him. Drenched in sweat, she trembled in his arms. She was dangerously dehydrated, overheated, and exhausted. Her body was shutting down. Desperate, he looked around, spied the survival pack in the loose grip of one of their captors, and lunged for it, ignoring the flash of hardened steel and the shouts of surprised anger.

Before anybody could stop him, he had the pack on the ground. He unzipped it, slammed his hand inside, and came up with a bottle of water, then lifted both hands free and raised them into the air so they could see he didn't have a weapon. An instant later he was back at Bones's side. He unscrewed the cap and flung it aside. Then he grabbed her shoulders and shook her.

"Bones," he said urgently. "Drink."

She blinked at him, dazed and disoriented. With a curse, he tilted her head back himself and poured water into her mouth while he thought back. Had she had anything at all to drink since the previous afternoon? Or had she been too worried about him, and then too tired, to look after herself?

He poured more water into her mouth and watched her swallow weakly, repeating the process again and again until she turned her head away, at which point he poured what was left over her head and neck, desperate to lower her body temperature. With no water left, he settled on the ground and took her into his arms, only then becoming aware of what was going on around him.

The women who'd been sitting by the fire had gotten to their feet and crossed to meet them. One of them, slight and black haired, with fine bones and strong, weathered hands, was speaking to Scar. She sounded angry. Her voice was loud and fierce, and she kept waving her arm toward Booth and Bones as she talked, setting the array of silver bracelets on her wrist into dizzying motion. Scar's replies were placating and defensive by turns, but at each one the woman shook her head and fired off another stream of what Booth was pretty sure was invective. He didn't envy Scar. Whoever she was, that woman was pissed, and she didn't care who knew it.

She made one final comment—something low, fierce and, Booth suspected, scathing—then turned to her companions and said something that sent two of them hurrying toward the open pavilion. When they returned they carried a matched pair of eight-inch long bamboo tubes, which they presented to Booth before backing away, eyes averted.

Puzzled, Booth sniffed at one of the tubes, then breathed a sigh of relief. Coconut milk. Nutrient rich and pathogen free, it was just what Bones needed. He pressed it into her hands. She was still shaky, but the water seemed to have helped.

"Drink it all," he said sternly.

He waited until she tipped the tube up to her mouth before casting a grateful glance at the women who'd brought it to them.

"Thank you." They wouldn't understand the words, but maybe they would understand the sentiment behind them. Without waiting for their response, he returned his attention to Bones, watching her throat work as she swallowed.

"Better?" he asked quietly when she finally lowered it from her mouth.

She nodded. "Better." Her eyes shifted to the second, still-full tube. "Drink," she said. Her tone was a pale imitation of the one he'd used on her seconds before, but he saw a faint spark of humor in her eyes.

Relieved that was showing some spirit again, he gave her his best muddy-sweaty-tired-hungry-regal nod. "Yes, ma'am." And when he heard her weak snort of amusement he smiled around the edge of the bamboo tube.

Finished with the milk, Booth got to his feet, drawing Bones up beside him. She leaned into him, but she didn't go back down, and when he looked over at her she managed a small nod. He tucked her in close against his side.

Once the argument had ended most of the villagers had wandered off, but now two women, one gray-haired and weathered, the other young and fresh-faced, approached Bones. The old one said something and gestured to Bones to come with her. Instinctively, Booth tightened his arm around her waist, but Bones shook her head at him.

"I don't think they mean to hurt me, Booth."

"Did you see the way those men were looking at us on the trail, Bones? And have you noticed how they decorate their houses?"

He'd seen it when they first entered the village, but Bones had been so far gone at the time that maybe she hadn't noticed. She looked around, but instead of being put off by the eclectic collection of weathered skulls and animal carvings, she just shrugged.

"They're probably animists," she said. "It's still fairly common practice among the more isolated tribes."

"Right. Fine. If they want to worship animals, more power to them. But what about the _human_ skulls?" Of which there were two that he'd seen so far, each adorning the top of its own bamboo post near the fire pit. Not quite trusting the language barrier, he lowered his voice. "Are you sure you don't believe in the mummy curse now, Bones? Earthquake, cave-in, mudslide, and now headhunters?"

But Bones didn't seem concerned. "I don't think we've committed any crimes serious enough to warrant beheading," she said. She almost seemed amused as she freed herself from his arm. "I'll be fine, Booth. Besides, if they are headhunters, it's better to do what they ask rather than risk giving offense."

She was probably right about that much, at least. Reluctantly, he let her go, but as he watched her follow the women into the jungle he couldn't help feeling a twinge of unease.

It was the first time since he'd arrived on the island that she'd been away from him for more than a few minutes, and he didn't like it. He looked around, his gaze settling first on a man who was sharpening his knife on a stone, then on a group of people clustered around the remains of what might once have been a wild boar, and finally on Scar, who was watching him from the far end of the pavilion.

Their gazes met, held. With a sneer, Scar turned his head and said something to a pair of boys who were chopping bamboo a few feet away. The boys stopped their work and looked over at Booth, eyes wide. One of them said something to Scar, who shook his head sharply, repeated himself, and pointed.

Obviously reluctant, the boys handed their machetes to Scar before crossing to stand in front of Booth. Neither one was much older than Parker, and neither looked pleased to be tasked with looking after a trespasser. The older boy lifted his chin with a kind of grim bravado and gestured to Booth to follow him. Reminding himself that Bones had been right about not antagonizing headhunters, Booth fell into step.

They led him to the river, pointed out a pool of water shaded by overhanging trees, and pressed a small, waxy ball of what turned out to be soap into his hand. Right. They wanted him to bathe. He certainly couldn't blame them for that, but it bugged him that they were watching him with such distrust. _All right, then. Step one. Establish rapport._

"Booth," he said, pointing to his own chest. There'd been a time when this kind of exchange had made him feel silly, but six months spent getting to know the locals in a little village in Afghanistan had broken him of that. He pointed to his chest again. "Booth."

The boys stared at him, then at each other, obviously puzzled.

Booth sighed and tried again. "Booth," he said, pointing to his own chest and doing his best to look non-threatening.

The younger boy, eyes bright with curiosity, asked a question. The older kid responded sharply. Another question, this time in pleading tones. Finally, with a sigh and a dramatic roll of the eyes, the older one nodded. He turned to Booth, throwing his shoulders back and his chest out in a way that made Booth bite back a grin.

"Chahaya," he said, pointing to his own chest. Then, with a jerk of his head toward the younger boy, "Santoso." And finally, jabbing a finger toward Booth ... "Booth."

Booth nodded, feeling like he'd finally established a connection with these people, albeit a tenuous one. He pointed at his own chest—"Booth"—then at the older boy—"Chahaya" and finally at the younger boy "Santoso."

The boys grinned at each other, probably amused by Booth's mangled pronunciation of their names, then nodded. They held a whispered conversation while Booth undressed, and then Santoso jogged off while Chahaya leaned against a nearby tree, arms folded over his chest—obviously keeping an eye on the interloper. Booth moved into the river, too grateful for the opportunity to get clean to care that he had an audience.

By the time he'd finished washing, Santoso had returned with a pair of worn cotton pants. He nudged Booth's other clothes with his foot and wrinkled his nose in distaste, then held out the pants. Booth accepted them with a nod of gratitude, pulled them on, and tied the drawstring at his waist. He'd stooped to gather his other clothes when Chahaya stopped him with a light touch on the arm.

"What?" He was impatient to get back to Bones. Being away from her for so long was making him antsy.

Chahaya held out a finger-length piece of bamboo, its end cut at an angle, and mimed brushing his teeth. At Booth's doubtful look, he smiled more broadly, pointing to his own white teeth. With a shrug, Booth stuck the bamboo in his mouth. The tip had been softened somehow, and it tasted of cinnamon, and when he finished with it his teeth felt relatively clean for the first time in days.

Tossing the improvised toothbrush aside, Booth gathered up his clothes and followed the boys back up the trail.

His gaze found Bones almost as soon as the fire pit came into view. She was sitting on one of the reed mats with her legs tucked under her, her damp hair falling across shoulders left bare by the pale blue sarong she wore. He stopped. Stared. Swallowed hard. Vaguely aware of the strange looks his escorts were giving him, he shook his head. He ached to touch her, to run the pads of his fingers over the exposed skin, then bend his head and press his lips to that enticing curve where neck merged into shoulder.

He closed his eyes, forcing the thought aside as he took a deep breath. _Wrong time, wrong place. Get a grip._ When he opened his eyes again she was watching him, and he was suddenly too aware of the fact that he wasn't wearing a shirt. Jaw tight, he dragged his eyes away from hers.

And tensed.

A boy had emerged from the main pavilion and was making his way toward the fire pit. He wore dark cotton pants and a loose-fitting shirt. He was thin, fine-boned, and dark haired. Booth's observation of those details was instantaneous and automatic, the result of years of experience. There was something else about the boy, though, something that made Booth's eyes narrow and started his heart pounding in his chest.

He walked with a pronounced limp.

And he was moving toward Bones.

Suddenly Booth was breathing air that tasted of the desert. "No!" The shout burst out of him as he sprinted toward her. His feet pounded against dusty cobblestones, and he saw again the little school yard, the cheap paper kites, and the bright-eyed enthusiasm of children.

He flung himself in front of the boy, chest heaving as he reached for his gun.

It wasn't there. Damn it! Where was his gun?

"Booth."

The quiet concern in her voice brought him back. His memories of the schoolyard faded as sand, dust, and fierce desert heat gave way to the rich, loamy smell of the jungle and the muggy, tropical afternoon. He blinked, surprised to find himself surrounded by a semi-circle of men who watched him with narrowed eyes, their hands curled tightly around the handles of gleaming machetes. Bones stood in front of him, blocking his access to the boy. Her eyes were dark with worry.

With a vicious oath, he spun away and strode into the jungle, deliberately avoiding the path. Fury pounded through him as he ripped aside vines and tore through brambles, heedless of his surroundings. He swooped down, snagged a length of bamboo off the ground, and slammed it against a nearby tree, shattering it. Flinging the remnants aside, he pushed deeper, desperate to escape, to be alone with the pain and guilt until he could pack it away again.

Why couldn't he put it behind him? He'd seen worse than what'd happened in Afghanistan, been through worse, but for some reason this one event kept eating at him.

He burst through the last of the brambles and emerged onto the riverbank, only just managing to slow his momentum in time to avoid a dunking. Bending at the waist, he braced his hands on his knees and bent over, chest heaving. Seconds passed while he waited for his pulse to slow. Once it did he straightened and looked around. There was a large boulder nearby. He dropped onto it, his hands curling into fists against his thighs.

Bones found him there a few minutes later. She approached quietly, hesitating at the point where he'd broken through the brambles.

"Are you okay?" she asked.

He looked over at her, sighed, and nodded. "Yeah, Bones. I'm fine." He wasn't, really, but hadn't he worried her enough?

"Do you want to be alone?"

Shaking his head, he held out his hand to her. "C'mere."

She took his hand, and he drew her over to sit beside him.

"What happened back there?" she asked.

"I don't know, Bones. But I'm sorry."

"For what?"

"For leaving you there alone."

She leaned into him, her hand still resting in his. "You had another flashback, didn't you."

He considered, just for an instant, lying to her. Then he let out a breath. "Yeah," he said quietly. "Yeah, I did."

"Do you know why?"

He let out a breath. "That kid ... He reminded me of the one from Afghanistan."

"The bomber?"

"Yeah."

"But we aren't in Afghanistan, and that boy back there—" she gestured back the way she'd come "—isn't a suicide bomber."

Releasing her hand, he stood up and crossed to stare out over the river. "Don't you think I know that?"

"Did you think he was going to hurt me?"

"No!" He kicked at a rock, sending it flying across the river. "Yes." Without looking away from the water, he shook his head. "God, Bones. I don't know. I just ... he had that limp, you know? And he was walking toward you. After that ..." A bird soared out over the river, its wings flashing green and yellow in the sunlight.

"Booth ..." He felt her beside him, the brush of her arm against his. "You can't go back to Afghanistan if you're still having flashbacks. What if it happens again? What if you see another boy with a limp?"

He snorted. "It's the army, Bones. You don't just quit."

"And the nightmares?"

"Lots of guys have nightmares. Doesn't keep them from doing their jobs."

Booth let his gaze drop to the water striders that skipped along the river's edge. "I just wish I knew why it kept happening to me. I'm not the nightmare type, you know?" With a grimace of distaste, he waved away a cloud of gnats.

Brennan's response was quiet, almost tentative. "Could it have something to do with Parker?"

He tensed, everything inside him going still. "What do you mean?"

"You said they were school children," she said, in that straightforward, factual way she had that was painfully insightful at times. "I assume that at least a few of them were the same age he is."

"So?" His tight-lipped reply drew her gaze, the studied tilt of her head.

"While it isn't rational to conflate the children in the school yard with your own child, I know you, Booth. You would find it very difficult—if not impossible—to separate them in your mind."

The words hit too close to home. He moved away from her, crossing back to the boulder where he sat down heavily. There was something he hadn't told her, yet. Something he hadn't told anybody.

"An incident like that ..." He shook his head. "You don't think, you know? You just act."

He felt her eyes on him, but she said nothing. Taking a deep breath, he continued. "It was—" he scrubbed a hand through his hair "—God, Bones it was a mess. People screaming, kids crying, and that smell ..." Even now it was there, lurking just beyond the edge of conscious thought.

She sat down beside him, her hand on his leg, her shoulder pressing into his. "What did you do?"

"I did what I had to do. I radioed for medics, yelled orders at my men, and waded in to help, even though it was obvious there wasn't much left. The kid—" he shook his head, corrected himself "—the bomber must have been packing a lot of explosives under his shirt, because he leveled the place."

There'd been nothing left but dust, broken concrete, and bodies. And drifting down over all of it, those damned kite fragments.

"This one kid ..." He took a breath, his chest aching with the memory. "I knew him, Bones. His name was Zaahir." He'd found out later that it meant bright, shining. "I used to bring him peppermints. He always ate one and tucked the rest in his pocket. I think he saved them to share with his family."

Images flashed through his mind. Zaahir playing in the streets. Zaahir, grinning at him from behind a stack of folded newspapers. "Every time I went into the village he was there, either kicking around a soccer ball with his friends, or helping one of the shopkeepers, or just, you know, hanging out. Like kids do."

His gaze on the river, Booth forced himself to go on. "He was badly burned, and he'd lost a leg. I tried to stop the bleeding and keep him alive until help could come." He took her hand again, brushed his thumb over it, and pushed the rest of the story past the growing lump in his throat.

"He didn't cry, Bones. He didn't say a word. He just looked at me, and there was ... such trust in his eyes. Like he knew. He _knew_ I was going to make everything all right." Despite himself, he felt tears washing down his cheeks. "I couldn't save him, Bones. I couldn't do anything except tourniquet his leg and make sure his airway was clear."

"That's not true," Bones said quietly. "You did do something else."

"How could you know that? You weren't even there."

"I know because I know _you_. You would have talked to him. Even knowing he couldn't understand you, even knowing how much pain he was in, you would have reassured him. And in that situation? That was a gift, Booth. You made his last moments better, just by being there."

He had talked, she was right about that. He couldn't remember a word of what he'd said, but he hadn't stopped talking until a medic had touched him on the arm, shaken her head, and drawn a clean white sheet over Zaahir's broken body. He'd gotten to his feet then, stepping back just as Zaahir's mother arrived. Her anguished cries still echoed in his ears.

"You know what though, Bones? The whole time I was with him I couldn't stop thinking about Parker—about how I would've felt if it had been him in that school yard. "

"But it wasn't him."

"But what if it had been?" He almost couldn't get the words out. "What if that had been my kid lying there on the ground? How would I have felt if I found out later that some bastard saw it coming and didn't do a damned thing to stop it?"

She dropped to her knees in front of him, taking his hands in hers. He turned his head away. _Tears are a sign of weakness_ , his dad had sneered. _Don't ever let me catch you crying, or I'll damned sure give you something to cry about._

"Booth ... Look at me."

He shook his head.

"Please," she said. "Please look at me?"

He did, reluctantly.

"It wasn't your fault." She said it slowly, without breaking eye contact. "You have to stop blaming yourself."

He couldn't take her blind faith in him. He needed ... Abruptly, he tugged his hands free and got to his feet, but she thwarted his half-formed intent to escape by leaping up and blocking his way.

"Don't do that," she said, her low, fierce tone bringing his gaze back around to hers. And the look in her eyes, part love, part worry, and part stubborn determination, broke him.

He pulled her against him, dragging her into a tight, almost desperate hug. But she didn't complain. Instead she held him with almost as much strength as he was holding her. Wracked by sobs he could neither prevent nor control he leaned into her support while the pain washed over and through him, leaving him drained and exhausted.

She never let go, never backed away. Nor did she say anything, no platitudes or useless reassurances. She just held on and waited for the storm to pass. He loved her for that, but he didn't say that to her, convinced that she would only tell him she didn't understand, when he knew that she did.

When the worst had passed, he lifted his head and she lifted hers, and he kissed her. Gently. Gratefully. Then he touched his forehead to hers.

"I need to ask you a favor," he said.

"I would do anything for you. You know that."

"Yeah," he said with a faint smile. "Yeah, I do. But this is a tough one."

"What is it?"

"Promise me that if anything happens to me you'll look after Parker."

She paled, as he'd known she would, and started to pull away, but he tightened his arms around her and held on.

"What about Rebecca?" she asked.

"Rebecca's a great mom," he said. "But I need to know my son's got you, too. I need to know you'll keep an eye on him for me."

He could see how much his words terrified her, but he couldn't go back to Afghanistan without this one thing. He needed to know that if the worst happened, she and Parker would at least have each other.

There was a battle raging in her eyes. He watched it, waiting, aware that this was possibly the most difficult thing he'd ever asked of her. Finally, she nodded.

"Okay," she said quietly. "I promise."

He allowed himself a sigh of relief.

"But you have to promise me something, too," she said.

"Anything."

"Promise me that if you keep having flashbacks you'll talk to somebody about it."

Eyebrow raised, he studied her. "Somebody?"

"The army has people you can talk to, don't they?"

"People." He couldn't decide whether to be amused or surprised. "You mean shrinks?"

"Psychologists, yes."

"I thought you didn't believe in psychology."

"I don't."

"But ..."

"Well," she shrugged self-consciously. "If you need help, you should get it. Gordon Gordon helped you after you shot that clown, and then he and Sweets helped you again after your brain surgery ..." She trailed off, her hands shifting restlessly on his arms. "The evidence suggests that for you at least, talking to a psychologist may—" even now there was a faint note of skepticism in her voice "—occasionally—" she qualified "—prove beneficial."

It was a big concession for her, and it showed how worried she really was. "Yeah, Bones. There's somebody I can talk to."

"And you'll go to them?"

He nodded. "If it'll make you stop worrying."

"Well, since it's unlikely that I'll know if you speak to them I don't see how it can make me stop worrying. But you always keep your promises, so ... Yes. I do feel better."

It made him smile, the earnest expression on her face and the way she was trying, so very hard, to help him. He drew her close again and rested his cheek against her hair, but this hug had none of the desperation of their earlier embrace. This hug was, in some strange way he couldn't quite define, peaceful. They stood together for long minutes, the quiet broken only by the river's chatter and the now familiar sounds of the jungle, until finally she shifted in his arms and looked up at him.

"Do you think we should go back?"

"Probably." But he didn't want to. He wanted to stay here and hold her and pretend for a little while longer that reality, with all of its problems and complications, didn't exist. So it seemed the most natural thing in the world to thread his fingers into her still-damp hair and tilt her face up to his. And when she moistened her lips with the tip of her tongue kissing her became the only conceivable course of action.

He'd meant to keep it gentle, but she smelled of nutmeg and tasted of cinnamon, and when she twined her arms around his neck and pressed against him with a soft hum of pleasure it was all he could do not to crush her against him. He deepened the kiss, just for an instant, unable to resist the temptation. But it was too good, too dangerous. He pulled away and took a half-step back, his breath already coming too fast, his heart racing. Biting back a curse of frustration he tried to take comfort from the turbulent look in her eyes and the fact that her breathing was equally unsteady.

"Okay," he said, fighting to keep his voice even. "Maybe you're right. Maybe we should go back."

She didn't say anything, but the corners of her lips quirked up, and before she turned away she brushed the tips of her fingers over his chest, leaving a trail of fire in their wake.

They returned to the village to find the women in the midst of preparing a meal and the men working over the remains of the wild boar. Silver and a few of the other women glanced up from their work, offered quick, uneasy smiles, and then bent their heads again, talking quietly among themselves. The men also paused, glancing from Booth to Scar and back again, obviously waiting for some signal from their leader.

For his part, Scar watched their approach from the far end of the clearing, parang in hand, a dark scowl on his face. Booth touched Bones on the arm, drawing her to a stop.

"Doesn't look like I made too many friends," he said uneasily.

"What do you expect, Booth? Whether you meant to or not, you threatened one of their own. It's perfectly reasonable that they would be distrustful."

"Great." He blew out a sigh. "So how do we keep them from lopping off our heads?"

She flicked him a disapproving glance. "Your conviction that they're headhunters is completely unsupported by evidence," she said. "You do know that, don't you?"

"Hello," he said, gesturing toward the fire pit, "do you _see_ those two skulls?"

"Of course I do, but without performing a more thorough examination I have no way of knowing how old they are. "

"Right. So they could be fresh kills."

"I highly doubt it." She all but rolled her eyes at him. "Besides, if they intended to kill us, don't you think they would have done so by now?"

She had a point there. He glanced across the clearing. Scar and Silver were talking. Booth watched them, eyes narrowed as he studied their body language. Silver seemed less angry this time, more placating. Scar had folded his arms across his chest, his weight balanced on the balls of his feet, chin jutted forward. Stubborn, then. Angry. Beside him, Bones was watching, too.

"We have to apologize," she said suddenly.

Booth glanced over at her, eyebrows raised. "How the hell are we supposed to do that? We don't even speak the same language."

"Come on," she said, starting across the clearing. "Follow my lead."

"Bones!" Damn it. There she went again. For somebody who prided herself on her reasoning skills she could be frustratingly impulsive sometimes. "Bones! Wait!"

He hurried to catch up, his attention divided between her and the villagers, all of whom were watching the drama unfold with varying degrees of fascination. Car-wreck syndrome, Maluku style. He shook his head.

Scar and Silver had stopped talking at their approach, and there was a moment of awkward silence as Booth and Bones came to an awkward stop in front of them. Booth looked over at Bones, curious to see what anthropological magic she was about to bring to bear.

He was a little disappointed when all she did was cross her hands over her heart and lower her head.

"That's it?" he hissed at her. "That's how you apologize to headhunters?"

She sighed. "Just do it, Booth."

"You want me to bow."

"Yes, I do."

"You have got to be—"

"Booth."

"This is crazy," he grumbled. "You know that don't you?"

"No, it isn't crazy at all. It's a traditional expression of respect." He saw her glance up at Scar, then over at him. "And if you really are concerned for the safety of your skull, you might consider trusting me. I am a trained anthropologist, after all."

He didn't like it. Bowing to Scar would be a little like ... Well, like bowing to Sweets. If Sweets were bare chested. And holding a parang. And fierce.

It was that last that convinced him.

Reluctantly, he put his left hand over his heart, fingers flat, and crossed it with his right. Then he bowed his head.

 _This had better work._

Nothing happened. He stood there staring at the ground, feeling like six kinds of an idiot, and nothing happened. Then Bones touched his arm.

"Look," she whispered. When he glanced over at her he saw that she'd straightened and dropped her hands back to her sides. He did the same, then followed the direction of her gaze.

The boy with the limp was approaching. Instinctively, Booth tensed. Bones touched his arm, her fingers just brushing over his skin. It was enough to ground him. He waited to see what the boy would do.

The boy made his way to Scar, coming to a stop in front of him with the same slight bow Bones had used a few moments before. Scar said something, a question by the sound of it, and the boy responded in low, deferential tones. There was a short pause, and then Scar nodded once, sharply, before turning and striding off, leaving Booth staring after him.

There was another quiet conversation between the boy and Silver, who glanced over at Booth and Bones, then nodded as she responded to whatever the boy had said. Still without looking at Booth, the boy turned and left, making his slow way down the path toward one of the small huts that was just visible in the underbrush. Booth watched him go, noting the quiet dignity and careful, measured stride, and he wished there were some way he could apologize for the wrong he'd done this young man who deserved far, far better than he'd received at Booth's hands.

"Booth."

Shaking his head, he looked over at Bones and found her watching him. "He didn't seem angry," she said.

"How can you tell?"

"Because." She shrugged. "If he were angry, he probably would have requested that you be punished."

He snorted. "Thanks, Bones. That makes me feel so much better."

She gave him an odd look, but before she could say anything Silver was drawing them toward the fire pit. She indicated that they should be seated, then turned to say something to one of the other women. As Booth settled beside Bones he studied her face, remembering how she'd looked when they'd first arrived in the village.

"How are you feeling?" he asked her quietly.

"Tired," she said. "And hungry. But I appreciated the opportunity to wash, and they gave me something for my hands." She examined them with a clinical eye. "I don't know what it was, but the pain is gone, and I very much like the fragrance."

Taking her hands in his, he turned them over. They looked better. The redness was fading, and when he bent her fingers he didn't sense any swelling. Whatever jungle recipe they'd given her seemed to be helping. Looking over at Silver, he gave her a nod of gratitude, and she replied with a faint nod of her own before turning her attention back to her work.

The rest of the villagers were gathering around the fire as well, some carrying reed mats of their own, most finding spots on the ground. Last to arrive was the boy with the limp. Still ignoring Booth and Bones, he seated himself between Chahaya and Santoso. Chahaya looked over at Booth, said something to his companions, and all three struggled to contain their laughter. Booth shook his head. At least they were enjoying themselves, even if it was at his expense.

Apparently Bones noticed the exchange as well, because she nudged him with her shoulder. "I told you he wasn't angry."

He shook his head, but he couldn't deny that he was relieved. "I know, Bones. And you're always right."

"Yes," she said, "I am."

Despite their lingering distrust, the villagers were generous people, and by the time the simple meal was over Booth was feeling content and well-fed for the first time in days.

"Best thing about this kind of cooking," he said, following the islanders' example and tossing his bamboo skewer into the fire, "no dishes to wash."

"I agree," she said. "It's very pleasant." She yawned. "But I find that now that I've eaten, I'm feeling quite tired."

She leaned against him, and he slipped his arm around her waist, letting his fingers splay against her hip. The casual intimacy of the act wasn't lost on him, but Bones didn't comment. Instead she rested her free hand on his leg, and he reached over to wrap his fingers around hers.

Across the fire from them the women exchanged glances, and Booth wondered idly if he and Bones had broken another rule, then realized he really didn't care. He was exhausted. He'd spent most of the past week crawling through caves, slogging through mud, and committing murder and mayhem on so much jungle vegetation that he didn't care if he never saw another palm tree or trailing vine. At the moment, Bones was curled up against him like a trusting kitten—albeit one with very sharp claws—and not even the threat of a possible beheading was enough to make him let her go.

Bones spoke without lifting her head from his chest. "I wonder what they're talking about."

He pressed a kiss against the top of her head. "They're probably laughing at the clueless strangers who managed to get themselves lost on an island."

"But it's a jungle, Booth. It's easy to get lost in a jungle, even a very small one."

"Seems that way to us, but these people live here. I doubt there's any piece of this rock that they don't know inside out."

"I wonder if they'll show us the way back to camp."

Booth glanced over to where Scar sat, a faint scowl still drawing down his eyebrows. "I wouldn't hold your breath."

She yawned. "I've been watching them work," she said. "It's fascinating how many ways they've found to use bamboo."

"Doesn't surprise me." He brushed his thumb over the back of her hand. The insect bite had all but disappeared. "The stuff's everywhere."

Across from them, Silver rose and gestured for Booth and Bones to follow her. Once they were on their feet she led them to a hut that stood alone some distance away from the others. Like the rest of the village buildings, it was raised on stilts, and Silver left them at the bottom of the short ladder after miming that they should sleep. Booth wanted to hug the woman. She'd rescued them from Scar, seen them fed and bathed, and now she was giving them a place to sleep. As far as he was concerned, she was a saint.

The hut was empty save for a pair of straw mats and their gear, which had been placed just inside the entrance. Their parang had been returned to them as well, freshly cleaned and sharpened. Booth wondered which of the men had seen to that, and what had prompted them to return it.

Booth kicked off his still-damp shoes and stretched out on one of the straw mats, drawing Bones down beside him. Her hair was almost dry now. It smelled of coconuts and wood smoke, but it was silk-soft, and at any other time he might've been tempted to bury his face in it.

"You smell nice," he murmured on another yawn.

She rolled over to face him. Drowsy-eyed and sleepy, she curled her fingers into his shoulder.

"So do you," she said.

Her touch made him draw in a breath, but he was too tired to do much more than smile at her before wrapping his fingers around hers and letting his eyes drift closed.

Seconds later, he was asleep.


	8. Chapter 8

Brennan opened her eyes to moonlight-softened darkness, the high-pitched whine of jungle insects, and Booth's quiet snore. She propped herself on her elbow and looked over at him. He lay flat on his back, arms and legs akimbo, as if he'd fallen that way and not moved since, which was likely true. As tired as she'd been when Silver left them here to rest, it was probably worse for him after having spent the night in that sinkhole. She was awake now though, and as she studied the faint sheen of sweat on Booth's bare chest she remembered their kiss by the river and wondered how he would react if she woke him up.

She drew a path from his clavicle to his navel with the tip of one finger, then back up again before circling around to trace the outlines of first one scar, then another. There was the one from the time he'd taken a bullet for her, another from a knife wound he'd received in a fight as a teenager—a story he'd told her late one night after too many beers and too little sleep—and a third, an appendix scar, low on his right side. Did he know that his skin told the story of his life almost as well as his bones did? Did he even think about it? Or was he the type of man who, once injured, only desired to put the memory behind him and move on?

Laying her hand flat against his chest, Brennan spread her fingers wide and let the rhythm of his breathing flow up her arm. She focused on the steady beat of his heart, imagining its faint vibration travelling through her bones, connecting her to him in a way that was as much about the irrational and emotional as it was about the rational and physical. There was a kind of symmetry in that. Angela would call it balance. Yin and yang. Hard and soft. Black and white. To Angela it was both that obvious and that easy. It was harder for Brennan, but she thought she was starting to understand. So while part of her mind counted Booth's heartbeats and timed his respirations, another part hungered for a type of connection they'd never made, an experience they'd never shared.

For years she had sneered at the concept of romantic love, rolling her eyes at people who talked about it as if it were the only thing that gave life meaning. Love was about chemistry and biology, she'd say. Pheromones and genetics and survival of the species. Romance was a fantasy exploited by movie makers and novelists as a means of selling their products to a lonely and unsuspecting public.

Not until Booth had come into her life had she begun to understand that love was so much more than that. He was the one who'd taught her that it was a father who would kill for you and a friend who dragged you away from work because the cherry trees were in bloom. It was Christmas dinners and gatherings at the diner and worrying if somebody was late for work. It was a ring-bound set of laminated cards.

And it was the way she felt every time she thought about him.

She studied the rise and fall of his chest beneath her fingertips. She couldn't catalog all of love's attributes, or research them for a peer-reviewed journal article, or capture them in photographs and diagrams. And if somebody asked her to define love so that it could be indexed, labeled, and categorized, all she'd be able to do would be to shake her head, shrug, and smile.

"Hey." His voice, heavy with sleep, drew her eyes up to his. "Your brain's going to explode if you keep thinking that hard." He smiled at her behind his week-old beard as his fingers found hers in the darkness. "What's the matter? Can't you sleep?"

"Your brain can't actually explode just from thinking," she corrected automatically. "Besides, I'm not tired anymore."

Her hand still rested on his chest, so she felt his sudden indrawn breath and the leap of his pulse beneath her palm. How much time did they have left before the army demanded his return? He'd not said, and she'd not asked, but it probably wasn't long. She wanted this, wanted _him_ , before it was too late.

He linked his fingers through hers and drew her hand up to his mouth, so that when he spoke his breath fanned across her knuckles.

"Was there something else you wanted to do instead?" His voice, low, husky, and seductive, sent a shiver up her spine. Sex with Booth would be different from the sex she'd enjoyed with other men. She was convinced of that. What she still didn't really understand was how that could be possible. The mechanics were the same, weren't they? The act itself unchanged. And yet he'd always seemed so certain ...

She chose her words deliberately, bypassing the vocabulary of science in favor of less precise, more accurate terminology. And she spoke without taking her eyes from his.

"I want you to make love to me."

He drew in a breath, his hand leaving hers to trail up to her shoulder and then on into her hair. Slowly, he pulled her head down to his. Just before his lips met hers she heard him give his answer in a voice roughened by emotion. "I thought you'd never ask."

He was achingly gentle with her, his mouth only just brushing against hers as he threaded his fingers through her hair. It was a tantalizing kiss, full of promise, but when she would have drawn him deeper he backed off, his thumbs pressing lightly against her temples.

"Shh," he said, the words little more than a rumble in his chest. "There's no rush here."

She was a little nonplussed by the comment. Her previous partners had generally preferred vigorous sexual activity, which she had always found pleasurable as well. But something about the feather-light brush of his lips and the measured exhale of his breath was both more intimate and more arousing than anything she'd experienced with her other lovers. Already she felt her heart rate accelerating, the muscles of her stomach drawing in, her breasts tightening. She skimmed her hand down to his hip and smiled when she felt muscle contract beneath her fingertips. He wasn't as unaffected as he seemed to be trying to appear.

"You're a very attractive man," she murmured. "I've often wondered what it would be like to experience sexual intercourse with you." She tasted the salt-sweet tang of sweat as she trailed her lips over his chest, inhaled cinnamon and cloves. She let her lips travel lower and felt his hands tense in her hair. Without warning his leg wrapped around hers and his hand shifted to her shoulder as he rolled, bringing her body under his.

"I've wondered the same thing about you," he said, and nibbled a path from her chin to just behind her ear, leaving a trail of moist heat in his wake.

She murmured her approval, tilting her head to give him better access. "You have?"

"Oh, yeah." His tongue flicked at the place where cartilage joined to bone, and she caught her breath at the jolt of sensation that swept through her.

His voice sounded at her ear as little more than a whisper. "You like that, huh?"

"Mmm." She trailed her fingers up his rib cage, tracing the outlines through his skin, counting and measuring with the tips of her fingers. Learning. Studying. Memorizing.

He tensed, caught her hand, and pressed it down against the mat, lacing his fingers through hers. "That tickles."

A moment later his lips grazed the hollow of her throat, turning her momentary amusement into a sigh of pleasure. She suspected it was a deliberate move, meant to distract her, but when he flicked his tongue against the spot she couldn't help a low, hungry moan.

"Good?" he asked, repeating the action.

"Yes." Freeing her hand from his, she reached up to explore his shoulder, satisfying her curiosity about his perfect acromion in a way that hadn't seemed appropriate when she'd been collecting bomb evidence the previous Christmas. His muscles contracted at her touch, and she curled her fingers into them, earning a quiet murmur of approval in response.

He was working his way up her neck and along her jaw again. She turned her head, hungry for the feel of his lips against hers and the taste of him on her tongue, but he evaded her and trailed a line of kisses up to her temple instead, so she settled for a light nip at his shoulder that made him shift restlessly against her. She did it again and felt his chest expand against her as he drew in a sharp breath.

"You have very nice shoulders," she said. "I've always found them extremely attractive."

She felt his quiet laugh more than heard it, his breath warm against her neck. "I'm glad you approve."

"Oh, yes. Very much so."

He brushed his lips across her forehead and down her nose, then stopped to look down at her, his hands tangled in her hair, his mouth mere centimeters from hers. She wondered what he was thinking. There was an intensity to his expression that she didn't understand, but it made her throat tighten and caused an unfamiliar ache in her chest. His thumbs stroked her temples, and she lifted her head, reaching for his kiss, breathing in the scents of the island—coconut and cinnamon, nutmeg and cloves—and then whispering his name as his mouth finally settled onto hers.

She wanted him closer. Wanted more. Lifting her hands to the back of his head she deepened the kiss and reveled in the light, quick, stroke of his tongue against hers as he responded, answering her silent demand with one of his own. He kissed very well, but she'd known that already. What she hadn't realized was the degree to which his kiss would accelerate her pulse rate, or how quickly her body would ready itself for him.

His hand found the curve of her waist and hip before inching upward so slowly that she arched her back and moaned a demand low in her throat, and when his palm finally reached the outer edge of her breast she gasped, her body rising toward his of its own accord, responding to his touch like a puppet on a string. Never had she ached for a man the way she ached for him, and it confused her, even unnerved her a little, to realize how little control she had over her reactions. Even the light pressure of his fingers, separated from her skin by the borrowed sarong, made her drag her mouth away from his and whisper his name in the darkness.

He backed off then, easing away from her and sliding his fingers beneath the top edge of the pale blue fabric. "How does this thing work?"

His voice was rough, impatient. She understood that feeling, shared it, and was glad she'd planned ahead. Still, she couldn't resist teasing him a little. "I thought you wanted to take this slow."

"Yeah. Well. I changed my mind." He cupped her breast in his hand and brushed his thumb over the hardened nipple, making her gasp. "Now are you going to tell me how to get this off, or am I going to have to take my knife to it?"

Was he joking about using his knife? She couldn't tell, but Silver would be displeased if they damaged her sarong. Hoping to prevent that, she pulled Booth's head back down to hers, using her other hand to guide his fingers to where she'd tucked the extra fabric between her breasts. "Just pull the ends free," she murmured against his lips.

As a grad student in India she had mastered more than a dozen different ways to wear a sarong, and when Silver had brought her the length of fabric she'd known immediately which style she would choose. Later, as she'd sat at Booth's side by the fire, her mind had turned repeatedly to thoughts of him removing it, and despite her exhaustion her imagination had conjured several highly provocative scenarios.

"So all through dinner ..." His words trailed off as he lifted his head to stare at her, but his fingers were already busy dislodging the lightly tucked ends from their hiding place.

"One pull," she whispered as the fabric loosened and fell away. "That's all it would have taken." The comment stopped him for an instant, and she used his hesitation to her advantage, pushing at his shoulder and rolling to her knees. Naked now, her skin softened by Silver's cream and perfumed by homemade soap, she leaned over him.

"You planned this?" There was a hint of shock in his voice, or maybe disbelief. She wasn't sufficiently accomplished at recognizing vocal nuance to tell. Had he somehow not known that she was sexually attracted to him? Or was this another example of his conservative beliefs regarding human sexuality?

"I believe anticipated would be a more accurate verb choice," she said, then caught her breath when he reached up to cup her breast, the feel of his hand against her sensitive skin—its strength, the faint roughness of calluses—making her lose her train of thought. She lowered her head to kiss him again, sliding her tongue along and against his in a way that wouldn't leave any doubt about what she wanted. He responded with a series of quick counter-strokes and brushed his thumb over her nipple again and again until her body's natural reaction bowed her back.

Instantly, his mouth replaced his hand, his teeth first grazing over her nipple, then tugging lightly, and she bit her lip, fighting the urge to cry out. Hands splayed at her waist, he switched to the other side and repeated the action, and she couldn't help a quiet, desperate whimper. Every nerve in her body felt like it was alive, every muscle tensed and expectant, and when he pulled her back down and found her mouth with his she straddled his hips and rubbed against him in a futile search for relief. He groaned and nipped gently at her tongue before pulling away once more to trail open-mouthed kisses along her jaw and down her neck. When his tongue found her clavicle, she tilted her head back and away again, opening the spot to the moist heat.

"God, you smell good," he said, his hips shifting restlessly against hers. "Cinnamon and nutmeg."

"Mmm." She moved off of him and tugged at the drawstring tie at his waist. "That's the soap they gave me. It isn't my usual choice of scents."

"No." He reached to help her, lifting his hips so that she could pull the soft cotton down and away. "You usually smell like sandalwood," he said. "And vanilla."

She was distantly pleased that he'd noticed, but she had more pressing things on her mind. She brushed her hands over his knees and up his thighs, kneading lightly as she went, feeling his muscles go taught beneath her fingertips. She paused for an instant at the first wiry-soft touch of his pubic hair and ended by wrapping her fingers around him. He was fully aroused, and he throbbed at her touch. He wasn't the largest man she'd ever had intercourse with, but she'd never been particularly concerned with the size of a man's penis. It was experience she wanted. Experience and stamina. She squeezed lightly, loosened her grip, and stroked him from base to tip, then back down again. As she'd expected based on her frequent observations of his skeletal structure and excellent physical health, he was quite satisfactory.

She looked up in surprise when he groaned and pulled her hand away.

"Not a good idea, Bones. Not unless you want this to end right now."

She considered that, weighing the implications. It seemed unlikely that a man as virile as he was would have to contend with sexual dysfunction, but she supposed it was possible.

"Do you often have problems with premature ejaculation?"

Still holding her hand, he shook his head. "What? No! Geez, Bones, way to kill the mood."

He sounded more amused than angry, but obviously he didn't wish to discuss it. Maybe she should try a different approach.

"How long is your refractory period?"

"Excuse me?"

The disbelief in his voice made her blink. She was trying to put him at ease, but his reaction to her questions made her wonder if she was being inappropriate again. "Your refractory period," she repeated patiently. "How long does it take—"

"I know what it means."

Then perhaps he'd misunderstood why she'd asked the question. "If you have a relatively short refractory period," she explained, attempting to resolve any confusion on his part, "then there's no reason why—"

"Oh, yeah there is." He swept out an arm, brushed the sarong aside, and pushed her down on her back. "There's only one way this is going to end."

"Only one?" Caught unaware by his move, she struggled to regain her equilibrium while he ran a moist tongue over her breast and blew a puff of air across the spot, raising goosebumps all the way to her center. "I find that—" She gasped as he tugged her nipple into his mouth and swirled his tongue over the sensitive skin. "—disappointing," she finally managed, her voice a little choked, "since I enjoy experimenting with a wide variety of sexual positions."

He lifted his head. "God, Bones, do you even have a clue how hot you make me when you say things like that?"

She'd only been stating a fact. Still ..."That's good, isn't it?"

"Oh, yeah," he said. He pressed the flat of his palm against her stomach and began slowly easing it down, pausing just above her pubic bone so that she had to bite her lip lest she snarl at him for stopping. "Definitely good." He inched lower, and she drew in a sharp breath.

"See?" he asked.

"Less talk," she said. "Do that again."

"What?" His fingers stroked, circled, stroked again, and she drew her lip between her teeth with a soft hiss. "This?"

She shifted restlessly on the soft reed mat, her body clamoring for more, her fingers curling at her sides. She felt heavily, achingly empty. "Yes. That."

He repeated the motion, and this time she felt the tip of one finger dip into her vaginal canal. She tried to draw him deeper, pushing her hips toward his touch, but instead he removed his hand and bent his head, and a moment later a well-placed flick of his tongue brought her hips up off the mat.

"See how easy it is?" he asked, between pressing open-mouthed kisses up her stomach and between her breasts. "How close you already are?" Using only his lips, he nipped at the side of her neck. "That's pure anticipation, Bones. Nothing dysfunctional about it."

Instead of answering she caught his head and pulled him in for a deep, hard kiss. His response was instant. His tongue thrust against hers. His hand slid up her side to palm her breast. It wasn't until his thumb brushed over her nipple and she arched her back that she realized he'd moved, positioning himself so that when she raised her hips he was there, waiting. She felt him slide in, hard and deep, and only the fact that he was still kissing her kept her from crying out—not from pain or surprise, but because of the sheer intensity of the moment.

Without moving his hips he gentled the kiss until his mouth just rested against hers, but she felt his heart racing, and when he lifted himself above her his arms trembled, though not, she thought, from strain.

She pressed unsteady hands against the wall of his chest, surprised to discover she had tears in her eyes. Before Booth she'd always been careful to keep a part of herself separate from the man she was with. Sex had been about pleasure and physical release, an enjoyable pastime, but nothing more. This ... This was different. She had no secrets from Booth. He knew her—and understood her—better than any man ever had. There was something both terrifying and liberating about that.

"You okay, Bones?" he asked quietly. He balanced his weight on one arm and used the other to brush her hair back from her face with gentle fingers. "Still with me?"

She'd anticipated his expertise. Any alpha male with his attributes would have had numerous opportunities to improve his technique, and from what little she knew of Booth's history, he'd availed himself of many of them. What she hadn't expected was the way he looked at her—as if she were precious to him, even cherished. No one had ever looked at her like that before. It made her eyes burn and drew a lump to her throat. She bent her knees, opening to him and simultaneously tightening her muscles around him. She wanted him deeper, closer, inside her own skin if possible. It was a scientific impossibility, but she didn't care. She didn't want to think about science right now. She just wanted to _feel_.

"You once told me," she said, her voice low and tight, "that there was a difference between crappy sex and making love." She slid her hands up his arms and tilted her pelvis toward his, then shuddered as she felt his response deep inside her vaginal canal. "Teach me." She bit her lip at the intensity of the feelings that rippled through her system. "Prove to me that two people can share the same space."

He brushed his lips across hers, smiled a little, then lifted his head and moved against her, pressing deeper. Her eyes closed. She clutched at his shoulders.

"The key," he said, pulling back and then pushing forward again, "is that they have to be the right two people."

They moved together easily, slowly at first, the tension building by increments, their voices little more than whispers that started, stopped, and then picked up again mid-sentence, sometimes mid word. Brennan felt her orgasm begin to build, her body responding instinctively to the friction created by his. It was genetics and biology, survival of the species and nature looking to nature, just as she'd always said. But there was more, too, something both unnamed and unnamable. She didn't understand it, but she knew she had to have it, to claim it as hers, if only to hold it in her hands and study its shape, to taste it and learn its flavor.

She reached for it, stretching up, pushing against him, her hips rising to meet his and then falling away again over and over, faster and faster. It wasn't until that final instant, as she crested the wave and felt herself shatter, that she understood. The thing she hadn't been able to name, still couldn't really define, had her at its center. And she wasn't alone.

She'd started to come back down when she realized that Booth had paused. He was watching her, utterly still, his jaw tight as he fought for control. She shook her head and pushed her hips toward his.

"Don't stop," she pleaded. "Come with me." She couldn't have said if she meant it in the metaphorical sense or the colloquial one, but it didn't matter. He nodded, his hips pushed forward hard, once, twice, and then he went over, too. He caught her hand, his fingers wrapping tightly around hers as he shuddered against her, and in that moment she finally understood what he'd meant by two people occupying the same space.

Brennan drifted into a gradual awareness of soft reed mats and bamboo walls, the smell of sex and the incessant whine of insects. Booth had rolled to his back beside her, out of sight, but their fingers were still linked, and she felt his leg brush against hers. Gradually, her heart rate slowed. Her respiration normalized. When she finally turned her head she found him watching her.

"Jungle heat," he said wryly, and dabbed a line of sweat from her upper lip with the pad of his thumb. "Nature's birth control." His expression turned serious as his fingers tightened around hers. "We didn't use a condom."

"I have an IUD," she said, unconcerned. "And I doubt you would have had sexual intercourse with me if you had an STI."

He snorted. "Way to get right to the point, Bones."

"Well it's true, isn't it?

"Of course it's true."

"See? So stop worrying." She rolled onto her side and gave him a quick, bright smile as she ran her finger through the moisture on his chest. "You do know that heat isn't an effective birth control method, don't you?"

"Are you kidding? I'm sweating like a pig here." He grinned over at her. "And I'm pretty sure that doing that again right now could kill me."

She shook her head. "Pigs don't have sweat glands."

"It's a saying."

"Oh." It seemed an odd simile, but then a great many of the idiomatic sayings Booth had taught her seemed to have little basis in fact. "Then I hope it's also true that having sexual intercourse again wouldn't kill you, because I would very much like to do that again."

"Now?"

He sounded vaguely horrified by the thought, and she laughed as she reached for her sarong and got to her feet.

"Not right now, no. Right now I want to go for a swim."

He shook his head, but reached for the cotton pants anyway. "You want to swim."

"Yes, I do."

"In the middle of the night."

"I don't understand how the time is relevant."

She slipped her bare feet into her shoes and started down the short ladder, glad of the nearly full moon. As soon as they were both on solid ground, Booth laced his fingers with hers and took the lead. There were dozens of reasons why what they were doing was ill-advised, but she was feeling giddy and reckless, as if she could take on every creature of the jungle night and emerge the victor.

He led her to a different section of the river than the one where she'd bathed, but the riverbed was sandy here, as well. As soon as they reached it she dropped her sarong and waded into the water, only to turn back when she realized Booth wasn't with her.

"Is something wrong?" she asked.

"No, I just ..." The expression on his face was one she thought she'd seen before. Then she remembered. He'd looked at her the same way at the opening of the exhibit for Prince Meti. Shaking her head, she splashed back to shore.

"Are you just going to stand there and stare?" she asked, moving in so close that her breasts brushed against his chest, "or are you going to come in with me?"

When he reached for her she slipped away and backed into deeper water. He started to follow, then stopped with a quiet oath as he realized he was still wearing the cotton pants. She watched him strip. He really was quite breathtaking, lean and well-toned, with broad shoulders, narrow hips, and a natural athleticism that she found intensely arousing.

He entered the river with three long strides and a shallow dive, coming up beside her in the deeper water and shaking water out of his eyes.

"This is crazy, you know that, don't you?"

"It might be somewhat foolhardy," she said, resting her hands against his chest, "but I hardly think it's accurate to assign a label of insanity."

"You aren't worried that somebody will see us?"

"Not at all. And even if they did, I doubt they would care. Indigenous peoples tend to have a much more relaxed attitude toward human sexuality than most Americans do." She leaned in close, and his arms slid around her waist. "Why, are you worried?"

"No." But he glanced toward shore, as if he thought they were being watched. "I just wouldn't want you to be embarrassed, is all."

In too good a mood to worry about it she stretched, arching back luxuriantly and enjoying the feel of the water on her bare skin. His hands slid from her back as he eased his hold, but he didn't let her go, just shifted his grip to her hips so she wouldn't lose her balance. He never stopped watching over her, and while she'd once chafed against that aspect of his character she understood now that his behavior was simply a demonstration of an alpha male's natural protective instincts toward his perceived mate.

When she straightened he was watching her, and there was a light in his eyes that she hadn't noticed earlier. She tilted her head, studying him, and decided he looked happy. She wrapped her arms around his neck and kissed him, exploring his mouth while the water swirled around them and bats darted through moonbeams over their heads.

Booth ended the kiss and touched his forehead to hers, his hands still trailing along her spine. "Merry Christmas, Bones."

She hadn't thought about the date, but a quick mental calculation confirmed that he was correct. She lifted her hands to his face, trailing her fingers over the familiar planes and angles with a soft smile. "Merry Christmas."

His palms skimmed her sides, brushing against the outer edges of her breasts before slipping back down to her hips. She rested her head against his shoulder and let her hands wander over him, her fingertips pressing into muscle here, tracing the length of an unseen bone there, until without warning, Booth lifted her into his arms. Supporting her hips at his waist with one hand, he used the other to gently push her back.

"Float," he said.

She caught at his shoulders, countering the pressure of his hand. "Why?"

"Because I asked you to," he said, his eyes locked on hers in a silent request that she trust him. His palm still rested against her breast bone, but lightly. He wouldn't force her.

She did as he asked, turning her gaze to the star-studded sky that was just visible through the trees that overhung the river. His fingers slid over her, the tips brushing against her at hip, stomach, and thigh before gliding under the water's surface to explore her lower spine and trace the muscles of her thighs. She let herself drift, her eyes slipping closed even as she felt him ease clear of her legs so that she floated free.

A moment later she felt water trickling over her, the droplets caressing her skin as they ran between her breasts and returned to the river from which they had come. He dribbled another handful of water over her neck and shoulders, a third across her stomach. The fourth trailed a lazy path from her knees to the tops of her thighs.

"Feel good?" he asked, so softly that she almost missed it.

"Very much so."

His hands returned, their light, skimming touch almost as smooth as the water itself. He traced her body from knee to shoulder and back again, over and over, the pattern changing so gradually that several minutes passed before she realized he was working his way toward her pubis, and when he finally touched her, his finger sliding gently between the folds of her labia majora, it was almost an intrinsic part of the jungle night, so natural that her only immediate reaction was a sigh of approval. She sensed him watching her and opened her eyes to find him standing beside her, his body anchoring hers against the relentless flow of the current. Holding her gaze, he drew his finger across her again, then a third time, and she felt herself respond, her body growing warm and moist as she shifted her legs to give him better access. He repeated the motion, only this time he eased one finger into her vaginal canal, still watching her, but adding the security of his arm beneath her back.

"You've done this before," she murmured, and tried to prevent herself from arching back, unwilling for the moment to end with water up her nose.

"Touched a woman like this?" he asked, his eyes never leaving hers as he drew his finger out and then pushed it back in. A faint smile played at the corners of his mouth. "A gentleman never tells." There was something dark and sultry about the way he said it that stirred a rush of heat at her core, and she moaned softly as his finger slid out, pressed in. "Certainly never in an Indonesian river in the middle of the night—" Out. In. "—never anyone as beautiful as you—" He added a second finger, and she couldn't help arching her back, but he was there, supporting her so that she didn't go under, waiting for the spasm to pass. When it did he relaxed his arm beneath her back and resumed the steady movement of his fingers. "—and _never_ anyone I loved so much." She felt the light touch of his thumb against her clitoris, a hint of gentle pressure in between the rhythmic thrusts of his fingers.

It was a kind of exquisite torture. She would only be able to resist her body's natural impulses for a few minutes. Could he protect her, even from herself? Or should she put her feet down now, while there was still time? He was watching her, and she saw in his eyes that he wondered what choice she would make. She trusted him, but did she trust him enough for this?

While he waited, he continued the steady pace of his movements. In. Out. In. Out. Heat coiled through her. She grew less aware of the river and its currents, and more aware of the rising needs of her body, the hunger for completion.

"Let it happen, Bones." His voice stroked over and through her, matching the rhythm of his hand and the slow, circular movements of his thumb. "Believe in me. In _us_." He added a third finger without changing his steady, maddening pace. "I'm here," he said. "I'll catch you."

She bit her lip and closed her eyes, concentrating on staying afloat as her body gathered in on itself. She no longer heard the whine of insects or saw the glow of moonlight in the trees. There was only his touch. His voice.

"All you need, Temperance—" The use of her given name, rolling off his tongue in a deep, husky whisper, made her gasp. "—is faith enough to fall." Her orgasm pushed at her like a flash flood at a weakened dam. She trembled with the effort to hold it back. "Fall for me, baby." She felt his fingers press deep, and this time instead of pulling out he left them there, his thumb pressing harder now, circling more quickly, until all at once the dam broke and she snapped back, nature and biology overriding her entirely rational fear of drowning as her body exploded into shattering orgasmic release.

"That's it, baby. Come for me." His voice whispered at her ear, the words washing over her and away as spasm after spasm tore through her. "I've got you," he murmured. "You're safe." His fingers still moved inside her, but gently now, soothing her, guiding her back down, until finally he gathered her into his arms and joined his body to hers, her vaginal muscles trembling along his length as he slipped easily inside. She remembered a conversation they'd once had about Plato—four arms, four legs, two faces. Maybe the idea wasn't quite so ridiculous after all.

She relaxed against him, her legs wrapped around his hips and her arms around his shoulders, while she waited for her pulse to slow and her breathing to return to normal. She'd never had an experience like that before, never trusted herself so completely to someone else's care. She lifted her head from his shoulder.

"I didn't go under," she said, faintly surprised. She didn't remember him holding her up, but he must have. "I thought I would. I was certain of it."

His arms tightened around her waist. "I told you I'd keep you safe."

"I know, but—"

"No buts." He pulled back, and she looked into eyes that were both softer and warmer than any she'd seen before. "I'll never let you fall, Bones. Never."

She held his gaze for a long moment before finally nodding and letting her head settle back against his shoulder. Despite the scientific impossibility of his assertion, she believed him.

He held her, swaying gently in the river's current, until she'd fully recovered, then he turned his head, and she lifted hers, and he brushed a kiss across her lips.

"That's two for you," he said with a faint smile. She felt him move inside her, a single, hard pulse against her inner walls. Apparently his refractory period was quite acceptable. "Think you can manage a third?"

"Absolutely." She curled her fingers into his shoulders. "I'm very fond of orgasms."

He laughed softly and shook his head. "You're a one of a kind, you know that?"

"Yes, I do." She tightened her inner muscles experimentally and smiled at his low groan. She was pleasantly surprised when the sound, coupled with another hard throb against her vaginal walls, began to stir her own interest again. She hadn't expected that, but she was glad of it, both because she enjoyed sex and because arousal meant her body would produce additional lubrication—hopefully in sufficient quantities to replace what the river washed away.

She pressed a kiss against his neck. His pulse raced beneath her lips. "Earlier you said that you thought doing this again might kill you, but you're in excellent physical condition." She nuzzled the point where his neck met his shoulder and felt his arms tense beneath her hips. "I don't believe an additional sexual encounter will kill you at all."

He lifted her, then settled her back down against him, pulling her hips against his. "We aren't done, yet."

In response she tightened her muscles again, deliberately, sequentially, and listened to him suck in a breath.

"Where did you learn to do that?" He rolled his hips forward, pushing deep and making her gasp. He really was quite skilled.

"I'm a very well-read woman, Booth." Her thoughts were starting to blur again as her attention narrowed to the feel of him inside her and the interesting ways in which the river affected their movements. She wasn't as wet as she usually was during sex, but she wasn't unpleasantly dry, either, and the slight difference in friction was intriguingly stimulating.

"Well, yes," he managed, lifting her up and then down again, "but reading about a thing is a hell of a lot different from doing it."

"That's sometimes true, yes." He pushed into her again, pulling her hips tight against his, and her comment ended up sounding more like a garbled moan than actual words. "I've also had a great deal of experience."

"Didn't ..." He lifted her. "Need..." Pulled her back down hard enough that water sloshed around them. "To know that ..." Arms banded around her hips, he kissed her, swift and hard, all tongue and teeth and hungry male possession. Then he eased his hold and let her float up again.

He was getting close. She could tell by the erratic nature of his movements, his short, panting breaths, the race of his pulse against her breast. She rolled her muscles again, pushing him higher. She was climbing as well, but if it happened, her own orgasm would be smaller this time. She was more interested in him, more concerned with giving than receiving.

But Booth had other ideas. He held her against him with one hand and slipped the other one between their joined bodies, rubbing swift, tight circles with his thumb in time to the shallow movements of his hips, driving them both higher.

"Come with me this time." His voice was a faint, tight thread of sound in the night. It curled around her, making it harder to control the movements of her pelvic muscles. She bit her lip, trying to concentrate, but finding it more and more difficult to do so.

"Almost ..." He stiffened against her, clenching his teeth as his eyes closed. "...There."

She squeezed, held, and felt him jerk inside her as he climaxed, his arms banding her so tightly against him that she felt every tremor of his body, every ripple of muscle, and the rushed, frantic beat of his heart thudded against her own breast. She used her arms and legs to draw him deep, and clung to his shoulders as she followed him over the edge.

When it was over, the last faint tremors dying away, she lifted her head from his shoulder and kissed him, stroking his tongue with hers and feeling the press of his fingers along her spine. Then she drew back and smiled at him. He was still holding her, though buoyancy was doing most of the work, and their bodies were still joined.

"I'm very pleased that you're still alive," she said softly.

He gave her a faint, exhausted smile. "Are you sure I am?"

She pressed the flat of her hand against his chest, smiled at the rapid beat of his heart against her palm. "Yes," she said. "Definitely alive."

"Ah. Well. That's good to know."

She didn't want the moment to end, didn't want to separate herself from him, so instead she rested her head on his shoulder, turning her face into his neck. He held her gently, his body swaying with the rhythms of the current, and for a long time neither one of them said anything. Meanwhile the earth rotated on its axis, turning night into day. It revolved around the sun, turning winter into spring. Time didn't stop. But it seemed like for them, just for a little while, maybe it hesitated.

 _It's our history. Everything we learn helps us understand ourselves a little better._

 _Never look back the way you came, Bones. Always look toward where you're going._

 _What's between us, is ours._

This was theirs. It would always be theirs.

"I love you, too." She said it quietly, without lifting her head from his shoulder, and felt his arms tighten around her in response. It was, perhaps, one of the most profound truths she'd ever spoken.

"I know you do," he said." I've known for a while."

She didn't question his assertion. He would never lie to her. Instead she sighed, wrapped her arms more tightly around his shoulders, and tucked her face against his neck. His hand stroked slow, rhythmic circles up and down her spine, a light breeze whispered through the leaves of the trees that lined the river, and the water caressed their skin on its way past them to the ocean. Utterly at peace, Brennan wished the night didn't have to end, but eventually she felt his grip on her ease.

"Do you think you could sleep?" he asked her quietly.

She was already halfway there, lulled by an excess of dopamine, the comfort of his touch, and the gentle swirl of moving water. She nodded against his neck and slowly, reluctantly, untangled herself from him, experiencing an unexpected twinge of loss in the process. Her hip and thigh muscles were pleasantly sore, but the rest of her felt languid. Relaxed.

They dressed and returned to the hut in silence, hands intertwined as they moved through the shadows. Once inside they kicked off their shoes and stretched out on the reed mats. Booth rolled to his side, facing her, and leaned in to give her a gentle kiss. When he drew back again she smiled, wrapped her fingers around his, and dropped into a deep, dreamless sleep.

  
 **Chapter 8b**

  
Brennan awoke several hours later to tropical bird calls and the rise and fall of human voices. She turned her head and found Booth watching her, a warm light in his eyes that made her smile, stretch, and curl her hand around his arm.

"Hi," she said. She liked waking up with him like this, sexually satisfied and eager to see what the new day would bring.

"Hi yourself." He leaned in to give her a light kiss. Moving away again, he sat up and reached for his shoes. "Ready to take on the jungle?"

"I've had food and water, a good night's rest, and several rounds of very satisfying sex." She gave him a quick, smug grin. "So, yes. I'm definitely ready."

He'd bent his head to work at his laces, but she heard his snort of amusement. "Glad I could help with that," he said.

"Yes, you were quite helpful." Dragging her eyes away from the play of muscles across his shoulders, she reached for her own shoes, checked them for insects, and pulled them on. "I trust you also slept well?"

"Like the dead."

"That isn't—" at his look, she shook her head "—you were being metaphorical again."

Shoes on, he glanced out toward the village. "You're the expert, Bones. Think they'll tell us how to get home?"

"They can't tell us because we don't speak their language, but they might show us. We've encroached on their territory, Booth, and even if they've chosen not to punish us, I'm sure they would prefer it if we left."

"So ... What? Are they going to give us a guide? Walk us back under armed guard?"

She pulled over the pack and reached inside for the insect repellent. "I don't know," she said, handing him the bottle. "But the river bottom is sandy here, so we probably aren't far from the coast. We may not even need their help."

"How far do you think we are from the dig site? Ten miles? Fifteen?"

She thought back, then shook her head. "There's no way to know without more information."

He sighed. "Yeah," he said. "That's about what I thought."

The way he said it made her look up from emptying the canvas bag. "Why?"

There was something wrong. He was tense, and he wouldn't look at her. Eyes narrowed, she studied him and tried to ignore the dread that flared in her stomach.

"Booth?"

He blew out a breath. "They gave me ten days' leave," he said. "Starting on the seventeenth."

The words fell between them like anvils, shattering her mood. She felt herself closing off, clamping down. "Today's the twenty-fifth."

He nodded, finally looking over at her. There was regret in his eyes. "Sea plane's supposed to pick me up this afternoon. It's two days travel each way."

What happens if you don't get back on time?" Her voice sounded strained, even to her own ears.

His expression was somber. "Nothing good."

The suddenness of it stunned her. She should have asked earlier. Now it was too late, and all she could think about was how little time they'd had. What if this was it? What if one spectacular night was all they would ever have? Closing her eyes, she swallowed hard and concentrated on pulling herself together. She wouldn't fall apart. Not here. And certainly not now. She'd survived disappointments before, and she would survive this one the same way—by putting it away, locking it down, and doing what needed to be done.

"Then we'd better get moving," she said, relieved that her voice had evened out somewhat.

She rolled their dirty clothes into the plastic rain poncho and pushed them to the bottom of the survival pack. Then she replaced the rest of their gear, arranging everything neatly. By the time she was done Booth had finished with the insect repellent. He handed it to her, and she smoothed it onto her arms and legs before dropping the bottle back into the pack. She felt him watching her, but she refused to meet his eyes as she got to her feet.

"Bones ..." His hands landed on her shoulders, and the touch of his fingers on skin left bare by the sarong proved more than her fragile defenses could withstand. She dropped the pack and turned into his arms, holding him tightly, her head tucked against his shoulder while she fought back tears.

"I don't want you to go," she admitted, her words muffled against his chest.

"I know." She felt his sigh more than heard it. "I don't _want_ to go."

She allowed herself a few more moments of self-pity before hardening her resolve and stepping away. They didn't have time for emotional scenes. She could handle this. Would handle this. For both their sakes. And that meant staying focused. She cleared her mind of everything except the now. They needed to get back to the dig site. That had to be their priority. Booth wouldn't miss his flight—not on her account.

She swiped at her eyes, picked up the daypack, and handed him the parang. She was moving toward the ladder when he said her name. Pausing in the doorway, she looked back.

"Are you okay?" he asked.

His concern closed her throat and made her eyes burn again. She nodded. "I'll be fine."

He looked unconvinced, but he sighed and adjusted his grip on the parang. "Let's see if we get that armed guard," he said.

The women were seated around the fire weaving strips of bamboo into conical baskets, but when Booth and Brennan appeared one of them called toward the pavilion, then rose to her feet and crossed to meet them. Brennan judged her to be in her early 40's, with the pronounced zygomatic arch and narrow mandible that marked the tribe's common ancestry. With a series of graceful hand gestures, the woman invited them to seat themselves near the fire.

As soon as the two of them were settled the woman returned to her work, picking up one of the partially completed baskets and weaving in a fresh strip of softened bamboo with quick, sure movements indicative of long experience. The women talked quietly among themselves as they worked, their fingers flying over the task, and while ordinarily Brennan would have been interested in what they were doing, today she chafed at the delay. Restless, she toyed with the straps of the daypack. They were wasting valuable time. They should have been on the move already. She was about to say as much to Booth when he touched her arm. She glanced over at him, but he was looking toward the pavilion, and when she followed his line of sight she experienced a twinge of unease.

It was the boy from the previous afternoon. His limp was more pronounced this morning, and Brennan wondered if the high humidity was aggravating his disability. Concerned, she laid her hand over Booth's.

"Are you okay?" she asked quietly, watching the boy's approach.

"Yeah, Bones." He gave her arm a quick, light squeeze, his fingers warm and firm against her skin. "I'm fine."

The boy set a food-laden bamboo tray on the ground in front of them, straightened, and turned away, but before he'd taken more than a few steps Booth was on his feet. He'd taken something out of the survival pack, which now sat open beside her, its contents spilling out onto the ground.

"Wait!" he called.

The boy stopped. Turned back. Brennan got to her feet. Booth wouldn't harm the child, but she felt a need to be close during their interaction, if only because Booth might find her presence reassuring.

Booth stepped in front of the boy, crossed his hands over his heart, and bowed his head, and Brennan wondered if he knew that bowing was a sign of respect normally reserved for one's superiors. That he was bowing to a child would be very surprising to the villagers. It would also be considered a great honor for the boy, even coming from an outsider.

She watched as Booth straightened, pointed to himself, and said his name. When the boy didn't react, he did it again.

"Booth," he said, and Brennan saw him drop his hands to his sides, palms open and facing out. It was a gesture Dr. Sweets had told her about once. It was meant to show openness and honesty. She waited, curious to see how the boy would react.

He hesitated, chin up, shoulders back, watching Booth in a manner that struck Brennan as significantly more mature than his age would seem to indicate. Finally, he nodded and jerked a thumb toward his own chest.

"Nakula," he said, accenting the second syllable and muting the others. He had a low, musical voice that was very pleasant.

Brennan couldn't see Booth's face, but the muscles across his shoulders relaxed, and she imagined he was smiling.

"Nakula," he repeated, with near perfect pronunciation. Brennan was impressed. She hadn't known he had an ear for languages.

Nakula nodded, but he still appeared wary, his gaze flickering uneasily from Booth to Brennan and back again.

Booth reached into his pocket, pulled out his knife and presented it to Nakula. It was a peace offering, she realized. Booth's way of apologizing for giving offense. Even here, in an alien world thousands of miles from home, his unique talent for understanding people served him well, and she felt a surge of pride as she glanced back toward the women and observed their rapt interest in Booth and Nakula's interaction.

Nakula examined the knife carefully, testing each blade against the pad of his thumb before folding it down again. When he finished he closed the knife and offered it back to Booth, but Booth shook his head and raised his hands, fingers open and relaxed, palms forward.

"Keep it," he said, taking a step back.

Nakula hesitated. Brennan saw him glance toward the women gathered around the fire. Finally he nodded, crossed his hands over his heart, and gave Booth a small, quick bow. Straightening again, he turned away, but not before Brennan saw the beginnings of a smile on his face.

She stepped up beside Booth. "That was very thoughtful," she said.

He looked over at her, then back toward Nakula's retreating form. "That's not what it was about, Bones. It was about forgiveness."

He put his arm around her waist, and she leaned into him, letting her head rest against his shoulder. Together, they watched the boy pick his way back to his own hut. Only when he'd disappeared from sight did they return to their places by the fire, where the women gave them shy, approving smiles and encouraged them to eat, their delicate phalanges almost seeming to dance as they waved first toward the food on the tray, then toward Booth and Brennan.

They were finishing the last piece of fresh pineapple when Scar appeared and gestured to them to follow him. Relieved to finally be moving, Brennan picked up the pack, and Booth the parang. They got to their feet, nodded their thanks to the women, and fell into step behind Scar.

Twenty minutes later they emerged from the jungle onto a wide strip of sandy beach. The sky was overcast, the air thick and muggy, but the ocean was calm. Scar led them to a pair of hand-dug canoes near which a trio of village men stood waiting.

"Looks like maybe we get a ride after all, Bones." Booth sounded relieved as he guided her toward one of the canoes, his hand at the small of her back.

"We need to find a way to thank them." It was the correct thing to do. She knew that. They should be grateful for the villagers' help and express themselves accordingly. So why did she experience a flash of disappointment?

"Got it covered." Booth flashed her a quick grin. She didn't ask about his plans. He'd behaved admirably with Nakula. She had no doubt he would do the same with Scar.

He stopped her beside the first canoe and pulled her into his arms. She looked up at him, startled by the unexpected display of affection in front of the villagers, but he didn't seem to care as he gave her a swift, hard kiss that made her hands curl around his arms and sent her heart into a wild, leaping tattoo against her chest wall. Almost before she could respond it was over. He lifted his head, looked into her eyes for a brief, intense moment, and then smiled.

"You know," he said quietly, "they might just be taking us to another island, someplace dark and mysterious where they intend to lop off our heads after all."

She grinned, but it felt a little forced, and her hands tightened around his arms as an ache of loss she couldn't quite subdue tightened her chest. "You've been watching too many movies."

With a low chuckle he dropped his hands away from her and stepped back, moving toward the other canoe. "We'll see."

Three hours of hard paddling later Brennan finally spotted the dig site. Hot, sweaty, and thirsty, she plied her paddle with new determination. The muscles in her shoulders and back screamed for relief from the punishing exercise, but she refused to quit, determined not to give their guides any cause for complaint. Still, she couldn't deny the relief that washed over her when the canoes finally nosed into the beach. Ignoring her exhaustion she rolled her legs over the edge of the boat and into the water, grateful for the cool wetness against her heated skin. Survival pack in hand, she stretched the kinks from her back and shoulders, bowed her gratitude to the villagers, and turned to watch Booth.

He was out, too, and standing beside the other canoe. She saw him nod to Scar, who returned the gesture without smiling. Booth retrieved the parang, hesitated, and glanced over at her. Guessing his intentions, she gave him a slight nod and saw a flash of approval in his eyes as he turned back to their host.

Chin down, eyes averted, Booth extended his arms toward Scar, the gleaming parang balanced on his open palms. Anthropologically speaking, it was a remarkably submissive gesture, especially for an alpha male like Booth. Perhaps Scar recognized that, too, because he only hesitated for an instant before taking the parang from Booth's hands, and when Booth lifted his head the two men exchanged a glance that spoke more of mutual respect than animosity. Without taking his eyes from Booth's, Scar issued a sharp order to the other men.

As soon as the canoes were out of sight Booth waded to shore and dropped to the sand.

"Well," he said, on a long sigh. "That was fun."

She knelt beside him, her movements constricted by the borrowed sarong. "No," she said. "It wasn't fun at all. It was very hard work."

"I was being sarcastic, Bones." He sounded as worn out as she felt.

She looked out over the blue-green ocean, listened to the hushed whispers of the waves against the sand, and let herself lean into him. His arm encircled her waist, fingers splayed wide over her hip, and when she turned her head to press her lips to his shoulder he skimmed his fingers up her side in response, pausing to caress the outer edge of her breast. She inhaled sharply at her body's instant reaction, and he drew back to look at her, awareness in his eyes. Then he shifted his weight, freeing his other hand to trace the line of the sarong across her chest, his fingers lingering against her skin and making her long for far more intimate contact as her pulse began to race and her breathing grew shallow.

Abruptly, his hand dropped away and he got to his feet, pulling her up beside him. "I could use some water," he said. "You?"

She blinked, caught off guard by his swift change of mood, but he was right. They needed the hydration. And he should eat something before he got on the plane.

As they moved through the work site Brennan evaluated the quake damage. Some of the shelters needed minor repairs, but Tia appeared to have observed proper storage procedures before she'd left, so the artifacts were safely secured. There was some cleaning up to be done as well, but that could wait until after Booth left.

Inside the dining hut Brennan tossed Booth a bottle of water, opened one for herself, and rummaged through the supplies for something to eat. She felt a growing sense of urgency with each passing moment, an aching awareness that their remaining time together was slipping away. He'd said the plane was due in the afternoon, and she'd been in Maluku long enough to know that afternoon, in island time, meant a roughly six hour window of possibilities—a window that had opened before their return in the canoes. They were, as Booth would say, living on borrowed time.

"What are you looking for?" he asked, lowering the half-empty bottle of water from his mouth.

She didn't look up from what she was doing. "Something to eat." She'd found some packages of dried fruit and one of trail mix. She was reaching for a container of jerked shark meat when his hand closed over wrist, startling her.

"I'm not hungry," he said, holding her gaze with his. There was a look in his eyes that made her stomach muscles constrict, and despite her best intentions she found herself staring at his mouth and wishing for its touch against her own. Frustrated by her lack of self-control, she forced her attention back to the matter at hand.

"Booth. You need to eat. You have a long trip ahead of you."

He shrugged and glanced at the pile of packages she'd assembled. "They're portable, right? So I'll eat on the plane." His thumb brushed across her wrist, and she had the odd sensation that the spot was directly connected to her uterus, which tightened at his touch. She bit her lip.

He thrust his bottle of water into her hand. "Drink," he said. "That we do need."

She felt his eyes on her while she swallowed, and when she finished he tossed the bottle aside and handed her another. She shook her head.

"Shower," she suggested instead, and remembered what his river-dampened skin had felt like beneath her fingertips the night before. She set the unopened bottle aside, picked up the packages of dried food, and pulled him with her out of the hut.

"You have showers here?" He sounded surprised. And intrigued.

"Of a sort." She threw him a quick smile over her shoulder. He'd apparently reached the same conclusion she had. "I'll show you."

They stopped at her tent long enough for Booth to tuck the food into his duffle while she collected toiletries and a change of clothes. There was a charged awareness between them that shortened her breath and weakened her muscles so that twice she dropped her bottle of deodorant. It frustrated her. She wasn't ordinarily given to clumsiness. But when Booth handed the bottle back to her the second time she saw in his eyes that he knew exactly what she was feeling. He grinned, picked up his duffle bag, and waited for her in the doorway.

The bath house was small, rustic, and almost hidden in the tangled undergrowth. Two fifty-gallon rain barrels on the roof provided the only water supply, but both would likely be full.

"There's only one shower," she said over her shoulder as she led him inside, automatically checking for the snakes that had a marked preference for the terminally humid interior of the small building. "We'll have to share."

His quick response made her smile. "Is that supposed to be a bad thing?"

She dropped her clean clothes on the bench and unwrapped the sarong. She was already hanging it up by the time Booth had latched the door and set down his duffle bag. She turned to him, glimpsed the heat in his eyes, and stepped into the shower stall.

"It's a low-flow, gravity driven system, so the water pressure isn't very high," she said, struggling to keep her voice even. "But it'll get the job done." She pulled down the chain that opened the valve, latched it, and lifted her face to the weak stream of tepid water.

"I don't care about the damned water pressure, Bones." Startled by his vehemence, she turned to find him waiting, naked and fully aroused. He dragged her into his arms and buried his fingers in her hair, turning her face up to his. "I care about you." And with that his mouth crashed down on hers and she forgot about priorities and practicalities. He dropped back against the wall, taking her with him, his hands digging into her hips before sliding up her back and around to her breasts, shaping and kneading with impatient fingers.

"Yes," she said, when his mouth left hers to mark a heated path down her neck. And "Yes," again when he worked his way first to one breast and then the other, suckling hard enough to make her whimper as she bowed back and pushed her hips forward into his, her hands gripping his arms so tightly that a distant part of her mind cautioned against bruising.

His mouth found hers again, his tongue driving deep inside, and she wrapped her arms around his neck with a low, hungry moan that made his erection pulse against her stomach.

She dragged her mouth free and reached for the soap, lathering his skin and then rinsing the suds away with quick, efficient movements of her hands, resisting the temptation to linger. Finished, she replaced the soap with her mouth, tasting him again and again, using her lips, tongue, and teeth to discover the spots that made him groan and the ones that made his body jerk against hers. She stopped at one nipple, swirled her tongue around it, and bit down just hard enough to make him suck in a breath. She did the same thing to the other one, and he growled her name, his arms tightening around her shoulders, his head dropping back against the wall.

Her hands moved over his body, smoothing across his chest and ribs, pressing into his stomach, and then slipping down to comb through dense pubic hair before finally circling his phallus and giving it a single, gentle pull.

"Shit." He stretched the word out on a hiss. Ignoring his tug at her shoulders, she dropped to her knees and traced his length with the tips of her fingers, then ran her tongue along him from base to tip, listening to his groan as she circled his glans and licked away the moisture that already gathered there. Wrapping her fingers around his base, she squeezed lightly and took him into her mouth.

His low, harsh growl echoed through the bath house and stoked the fire between her legs. She pulled back, circled his glans with her tongue again, and then drew him deep once more before backing off and looking up at him.

If she'd thought his eyes would be closed, he proved her wrong. He was watching her, his gaze dark and glittering. She licked her lips and lowered her head again, pulling him in as far as she could, her fingers tightening around him as she palmed his scrotum with her free hand.

"Bones ... " His voice sounded strained. Hoarse. "Damn it. Wait."

But she only drew back, her teeth scraping lightly along his length, and looked up at him without getting to her feet. "I want to do this," she said. "Let me."

He stared at her for a long moment, jaw tight, before finally giving her a reluctant nod. But before she could return to what she'd been doing he reached for one of the towels and dropped it beside her.

"For your knees."

She smiled her gratitude and wedged the towel under her knees, protecting them from the rough bamboo slats. Then she returned her attention to him, running her fingers up and down his shaft again before taking him in once more, concentrating only on him, cataloging his reactions to her every move and taking note of which ones seemed to give him the most intense pleasure. Gradually, she increased her speed, her hand moving in concert with her mouth as she sensed his impending orgasm.

He swore when he came, and she pulled her mouth away, using only her hand now so that she could look up at him, memorizing the expression on his face and the way he threw his head back against the wall and thrust his hips forward into her touch, his fingers clutching first at her shoulders and then at the wall behind him. He groaned her name, and she knew it was a sound that would keep her awake at night during the months ahead, forcing her to find solace in her own touch when he was half a world away.

When he finally sagged against the wall, she kissed her way up his stomach and got to her feet, ignoring the faint stiffness in her knees as she leaned into him and felt his arms slide around her waist. She tilted her head up and kissed him, gently this time, letting his breath sigh into her mouth. She was pleased that she'd been able to satisfy him this way, and content to rest against him until he recovered.

She felt him trail his fingers up and down her spine before sliding over to brush against the outer curve of her breast. Easing his fingers in between her stomach and his, he slid them up and curled them around her breast. The move was gentle. Caressing. She sighed and shifted, and he took advantage of the moment to catch her shoulders and turn her so that her back was against the wall. Water flowed over his back and shoulders as he lowered his head to kiss her.

"Your turn," he murmured against her lips, and when she would have shaken her head, he stopped her, his hands bracketing her face. "Let me," he said, and she smiled at the way he'd returned her words to her. He dropped one hand to her shoulder, ran it down her arm, and linked his fingers with hers. "I want to know how you taste."

The way he said it, his gaze locked on hers, sent a rush of heat to her core.

Letting go of her, he picked up the bar of soap and pulled her under the water with him. "I've wanted to do this with you ever since that day you stormed into my bathroom," he said, as he ran the bar across her shoulders and down her arms. "You were furious, and all I could think about was how much I wanted to drag you into the tub with me."

She remembered the ridiculous hat, and the comic book, and that awful cigar. "I would have liked that," she said. "Though I didn't know that I loved you then, so it probably would've been crappy sex."

He laughed softly and ran the soap across her breasts, flicking his thumb over her nipples and making her gasp. "Oh no, Bones. We will. Never. _Ever_. Have crappy sex."

She considered that, biting her lip as she tried to ignore what he was doing with the soap long enough to analyze his words. "Are you sure about that? Because I'm fairly certain most couples have crappy sex at least once in a while."

"I'm sure." She heard the soap hit the floor as his hands chased the last of the lather away. He backed her against the wall again and bent his head to hers, using the weight of his body to hold her still while his hands traveled over her skin, leaving trails of fire in their wake. "You said it yourself," he said. "We're the best."

Before she could reply his mouth settled on hers and his hands moved to her breasts and she forgot what they'd been arguing about. He traced her lips with his tongue, then probed deeper, and she met him, her tongue sliding along his, barely aware of the brush of his fingers against her hips and stomach. Then he cupped her pubis, his fingertips curling between her legs, and she inhaled sharply. He drew his head back to smile at her.

"Brace yourself," he whispered. "It's going to be a wild ride." His voice was full of brash self-confidence that made her smile as he kissed his way down her body. Cocky, indeed.

At the first brush of his mouth against her hip she whispered his name. He nudged her legs apart, then ran his fingers lightly over her skin, stopping just short of the apex of her thighs before smoothing his fingers back down again. He repeated the action, drawing slow, climbing circles with his thumbs, and she bit her lip, determined not to beg. His mouth was busy too, and she struggled to keep her eyes open as he worked his way down her hip, but when he slipped his tongue between the folds of her labia majora she gave up with a quiet, desperate moan.

His hands returned to her hips, thumbs pressed into the dip just beyond the bone as he held her still against the wall. He slid his tongue through her folds again, and when he ended by flicking its tip against her clitoris she gasped. He did it again, and her knees went weak, forcing her to push back hard against the wall lest she fall. Even so she slid down enough so that his hands tightened at her hips, supporting her as he thrust his tongue into her vaginal canal.

She loved sex. All kinds of sex. But the feel of a man's tongue swirling inside her was a particular favorite.

"Yes," she said, the word little more than a whisper. "Do that again."

He obliged, and she felt the thrust of his tongue several more times before he backed off and replaced it with a finger. Her hands curled into the wall behind her, fingers clenched tight, but every muscle in her body strained toward him. She couldn't think about anything except the way he felt inside her, the way her body shivered and trembled at his touch.

"More." Unable to help herself, she bent her knees, trying to draw him deeper. He added a second finger, then a third, and she felt his tongue brushing against her clitoris—hot, hard, flickering pressure that threw her with unexpected suddenness into a shattering climax.

His tongue slid against her over and over again, drawing out her orgasm until the sensations became too intense and she stopped him, her hands at his shoulders, her knees all but giving way. She sagged against the wall, pleasantly exhausted, as he got to his feet, and when he pulled her into his arms she wrapped hers around his neck. He guided her under the water, letting it rinse them clean.

"Definitely not crappy sex," she said when she could breathe properly again.

He laughed softly. "I'm glad to hear that."

"Yes," She nodded against his shoulder. "I don't think I want to try it in a bathtub, though. I find them too confining."

"I thought you liked to experiment."

"I do." She wrinkled her nose. "But the logistics don't work. Especially in that rinky-dink bathtub of yours. I believe it would be incredibly awkward."

"Rinky-dink, Bones?" There was a smile in his voice. "We'll just have to try it, won't we?"

It stopped her for a moment, the thought of being back in Washington with him, and she looked up.

"Everything's different now, isn't it." She hadn't really thought about it before, but now she realized that the past week had changed her in ways she didn't entirely understand.

He kissed her forehead. "Yeah, Bones. It is." He picked up the shampoo, poured some into his hands, and started working it into her hair. "Are you okay with that?"

Eyes closed, she relaxed against him, enjoying the feel of his fingers moving against her scalp. "I think so," she said, and then on further thought. "Yes, I think I'm very okay with that."

They finished their shower, took turns with the one remaining towel, and dressed. Brennan experienced a twinge of regret as she folded the borrowed sarong. It would have to be cleaned and returned, of course, but she very much liked the way Booth had looked at her when she wore it. Perhaps she would purchase one of her own. Emerald green would do nicely. Something shimmery and soft. The thought of wearing it out to dinner with him, and the look on his face when she leaned over and told him she wasn't wearing anything underneath, made her smile. Yes. She would definitely purchase one ... or two, of her own.

"What are you thinking about?" He was watching her, his fingers hovering on the zipper of his duffle bag. "You've got that 'woman of mystery' thing going on. It's making me nervous."

She laughed and leaned over to kiss him. "I'm considering an addition to my wardrobe," she said, and pulled the door open without waiting for his reply.

"Okay, now that's not fair," he protested, following her out with one hand at the small of her back and the other wrapped around the handle of his duffle. "What kind of addition?"

She shot him a teasing glance. "Nothing specific."

"Nightgown?" he asked hopefully. "Something slinky?" When she kept walking, he stepped in front of her, forcing her to stop. "Come on, throw a guy a bone."

She was about to reply when the sound of an approaching engine drew her attention skyward. An instant later a small float plane passed over their heads. She looked at Booth, her smile fading. She had a sudden, irrational urge to grab his hand and pull him into the jungle, away from the plane, away from their obligations, away from reality.

"That's your flight," she said, forcing the words past the sudden ache in her throat.

He nodded and reached for her hand, and she wondered if he was thinking the same thing she was. "Yeah."

She appreciated that he didn't try to give her hope where there was none, but the look in his eyes, a mixture of pain, loss, and regret, was more than she could bear. Dropping her gaze from his, she swallowed hard. Nodded. "We should get back."

They started back down the path, but their light mood had evaporated, and their steps dragged. By the time they emerged from the trees the little plane was already nosing up to the beach, its propeller winding down. Booth squeezed her hand, then let her go and went to talk to the pilot. As she turned to set her things on one of the work tables Brennan's eyes dropped to her wrist.

She was wearing his watch. She'd put it on after their shower without thinking. She had to give it back to him. He couldn't go into a war zone without a watch. How would he know when backup was coming? How would he know when it was time to eat? To sleep?

How would he know when it was time to come home?

She fumbled at her wrist, but she couldn't get the catch to release. She cursed. Tried again.

She had to get it off. It was his. Not hers.

Not. Hers.

She jumped when his arms came around her from behind. She hadn't heard his approach. Her heart pounded in her chest, and she blinked back tears.

"Keep it," he said, his hand coming to rest over hers on the band. He drew her back against his chest. "Social contracts, remember?"

She turned into his arms with a shudder. Drawing in a breath, she fought to control her voice. "No, Booth. You need it."

"No." She felt him shake his head. He pressed a kiss into her hair, his arms tightening almost painfully around her. "I have my army issue watch in my bag. That one's mine, but I want you to hang onto it for me." He leaned back then, his hands shifting to her shoulders, but she couldn't bring herself to meet his eyes. "I _am_ coming back," he said firmly. "This isn't the end for us. Not by a long shot."

She nodded, but all she could think about were suicide bombers and insurgent attacks, roadside bombs and automatic weapons fire.

He shook her, his voice raw with pain, "Damn it, Bones, look at me!"

Startled, she did as he asked. His jaw was set, his eyes grim, but when he lifted his hand to the side of her face, his touch was achingly gentle.

"I'm not your parents," he said, the words measured, precise, almost angry. "And I'm not Russ."

The observation confused her. "I know you aren't."

He shook his head, his fingers combing through her hair before coming to rest against the back of her neck. "Then don't assume I'm going to do what they did."

"You're going back into a war zone, Booth." She pressed her hand against his chest, just above his heart. "If anything happens to you ..." Her throat ached with the effort to hold back her tears.

She had to be strong. It was what he would do for her. She took a breath. Let it out on a slow count of three, and drew herself in, gathering the shredded remnants of her self-control until she could look into his eyes without falling apart.

"I'll be careful," he said, wrapping his fingers around hers where they rested against his chest. "But you have to promise me that you'll look out for snakes and spiders." He flashed a quick, wry grin that made her heart twist in her chest. "And don't go reaching into woodpiles without checking for bugs first."

"I won't." She turned her hand over and folded her fingers through his, holding on for just a little bit longer. "I promise."

Their gazes met. Held. She lifted her head to meet his kiss, her lips moving softly against his as she tried to tell him all the things she didn't know how to say with words. His free arm settled around her waist and he pulled her close, deepening the kiss himself as she relaxed against him, then drawing it slowly, reluctantly, to an end. With a sigh, he touched his forehead to hers.

"Six months," he said softly.

She managed a shaky smile, remembering. "At the coffee cart. I know."

He straightened and brushed his thumb along her cheekbone, his jaw clenching, his eyes dark with what she thought might be grief. Or maybe loss. Abruptly, his hand fell away from her face and he turned. He was halfway to the plane before she gathered her wits enough to call out to him.

"Booth! Wait!"

He stopped. Turned back. "What?" There were tears in his eyes. She hadn't expected that, and it brought her up short.

"I have something for you." She hesitated, suddenly uncertain, but already the plane's propellers were starting to turn. There wasn't time for second guesses. "Just ... Stay there for a minute." Without waiting for his response she turned away, then called back over her shoulder. "Don't go anywhere."

She took off at a run, scrambled into her tent, and ended up dumping half the contents of her trunk onto the floor before she found what she wanted. She fumbled at it for a second, metal clinking against metal. Then she was up and out again.

He hadn't left. He was standing right where she'd left him.

She approached at a fast walk, ignoring the pilot's curious gaze through the cockpit window, ignoring the slowly turning propeller, ignoring everything but Booth. Coming to a stop in front him, she took his hand in hers and dropped her gift into his cupped palm. Before she could change her mind, she closed his fingers over it.

"I have your watch," she said, with a self-conscious shrug. "This makes it an even exchange."

He opened his hand, and she watched a slow smile spread across his face as he examined her gift. "It's a skull," he said, his eyes lighting with humor as he looked back up at her. "Seriously, Bones? A skull?"

"What? I like it!" Then she realized he was teasing her, and she shook her head with a grin of her own. "I bought it from a street vendor in Guatemala." She watched him turn it over in his palm. "It isn't human bone, you know. That would be illegal."

"Ah. Well. Thank you for clarifying that." He picked it up, and the single key she'd left attached glinted in the sunlight. "What's this go to?"

She hesitated, unexpectedly nervous. It wasn't like her to act so impulsively. Maybe it was too soon. Too much. She should've waited. _Why hadn't she waited?_

"Bones?" He was studying her the way he sometimes studied suspects in the interrogation room, eyes narrowed, head tilted a little to one side. She half expected him to fold his arms across his chest.

Gathering her courage, she lifted her chin and met his gaze, determined to look confident, even if she didn't feel that way. "My apartment."

She didn't know what reaction she'd expected, but it wasn't the sudden warmth in his eyes or the careful way he curled his fingers around her gift before tucking it into his pocket. Then he pulled her into his arms, holding her so tightly that her ribs protested, but she didn't complain. Instead she hugged him back, her grip on him almost desperate, her throat clogged with tears she refused to shed.

"Six months, Bones." His voice was little more than a whisper at her ear. "And you'd better be at that damned coffee cart, or I'm going to come looking for you."

"I'll be there," she said, her arms tightening convulsively around his neck.

When he loosened his hold and stepped away she summoned a shaky smile. "And bring me back my key."

He grinned at her over his shoulder—swift, boyish ... cocky. "Baby, if that key gets me into your apartment, I'm not letting it out of my sight."

She watched him swing up into the plane and forced herself to stay where she was so that she could wave him off. Not until the little craft disappeared from sight did she let down her guard, sinking to the ground as the tears she'd been holding back all day broke free.

The incoming tide forced her to her feet a sometime later. She brushed the sand off her legs and let out a long, slow breath, her gaze on the empty sky. He'd gone, but she didn't feel abandoned. Only very, very alone. Tucking her hands in her pockets, she started toward the supply shed.

She had work to do.


	9. Epilogue

  
Booth stared at himself in the mirror. He was a wreck. He'd showered twice, shaved with a new razor, and tried on half a dozen shirts before finally settling on the plain, close-fitting black one he'd started with. This was insane. He was a grown man, a decorated NCO, and one of the FBI's top investigators. There was no damned reason why he should feel like he was hovering at the edge of a stroke, and yet his pulse was pounding, his hands were shaky, and he couldn't seem to string together two coherent thoughts in a row.

He'd been back in D.C. for three days. Long enough to see Parker, clean his apartment to a spit-polish shine, and restock the fridge. He'd also checked in with Hacker and Cam, finished the last of his separation paperwork for the army, and sorted out his bills. There was nothing left now but the waiting.

And it was driving him mad.

He'd missed her while he'd been in the desert, had dreamed of her at night and thought of her by day. He'd written letters he never mailed, made phone calls that never connected, and wondered, every damned minute, what she was doing. It had been the longest six months of his life. And now that he was home, how many times had he reached for the phone? Ten? Twenty? But each time he'd pulled his hand away. He wouldn't call her. That wasn't the way this needed to go down. She couldn't tell him what he needed to know. He needed to see it in her eyes.

He checked the time again and reached for socks and shoes. He'd dressed casually, but what if she showed up wearing something fancy and expecting him to take her out to an expensive restaurant? He considered changing again, cursed, and yanked on his socks. If that happened, they'd just come back here so he could change.

And that was a bad, bad thought, because he had a sudden vivid image of Temperance Brennan, naked, in his bed, and all at once his freshly pressed slacks felt way, way too tight.

Damn the woman, anyway.

Loving her was going to kill him.

But he ached to hold her again, to feel her body pressed against his and tangle his fingers in her hair, to watch her when a slow smile lit up her eyes and tease her into exasperated laughter when she was so stressed out that she couldn't see straight. He thought about the way she'd looked in the moonlit river, and the way she'd trembled at his touch, and he wanted that, too. He wanted to make her come apart in his arms the way she had that night and then hold her, safe and protected, while she found her way back. He wanted ...

God. What if she'd reconsidered? What if, in the six months since he'd seen her, she'd decided he was too big a risk? What if she'd started doubting herself again? What if, when he saw her, he discovered she'd rebuilt the walls he'd worked so hard to tear down? What if—?

With another muffled curse, he shoved his foot into his shoe, yanked the laces too tight, and then swore again as he reached down to loosen them. He had to stop obsessing over this. All he could do was show up, hope to hell that she did too, and pray, dear God, pray, that she hadn't retreated back into her shell.

Shoes on, he shoved his wallet in one pocket, his cell phone in the other, and reached for his keys, pausing as his eyes settled on the little skull. He wrapped his fingers around it, pressing the hand-carved bone into his palm just as he'd done on so many lonely nights in the Afghani desert, and felt his chest go tight all over again.

He hadn't been this nervous since he'd asked Sally Brenneman to the eighth grade dance. She'd been taller than he was, with a body that had starred in more wet dreams than he cared to remember, and he'd all but swallowed his own tongue when he'd tried to ask her out, only to have her turn him down with a toss of her head and a flash of blue-eyed disdain. The last he'd heard, Sally was married, had a couple of kids, and lived in Chicago with her graphic designer husband. He hoped she was happy, despite the way she'd humiliated him that day.

This was his turn at happiness, his shot at the brass ring, his winner-take-all, once-in-a-lifetime chance.

Gambler, indeed.

One last glance in the mirror, one last push of his fingers through his hair, and he turned away, flicking off the light switch and striding through the apartment without looking back.

It was time.

  
****************

  
Angela had met her at the airport, like she always did. They'd traded exuberant hugs. Then Angela had stood back, eying her critically.

"Something's different about you," she said.

"No. It isn't," Brennan argued, then, "Well, unless you mean the suntan, but that's to be expected after a year in the tropics."

Angela shook her head. "No. It's something else." She gestured, one finger spinning in the air. "Turn around."

Baffled, Brennan did.

"Something's different all right." Angela folded her arms across her chest. "Tell me everything."

Brennan had tried, but Angela had brushed aside every disclosure as not being "the thing." In desperation, Brennan had finally resorted to asking about Paris, then breathed a sigh of relief when Angela launched into an enthusiastic travelogue. Apparently she and Hodgins had enjoyed themselves very much.

Brennan didn't tell Angela about Booth. She hadn't told Daisy, either, despite the intern's open curiosity when she'd learned he'd been to the island. And when Tia had asked her about him, Brennan had shaken her head and made it clear that she didn't discuss her personal life on the job. Eventually people had stopped asking, their attention diverted by the damage to the caves and the need to get the dig back on track. Everybody had chipped in to help clear the fallen rock and then evaluate the damage to the precious paintings and artifacts still inside—everyone except Brennan.

Brennan never returned to the caves.

Nobody had questioned her decision. Nor, as far as she knew, had anybody realized that she and Booth had been trapped inside during the cave in. It wasn't an experience she cared to relive through discussion, nor did she feel any need to. Booth had been there. He knew.

That was enough.

She'd taken off his watch the morning the others were due to return, tucking it away in her trunk along with the little origami star that she'd somehow managed not to lose in all that had come after—the star that was in her jewelry box, now. And if she had, on occasion, retrieved the watch from her trunk and pushed it under her pillow during the long, dark nights, it was only because she found the back-lighting useful when she woke up in the early morning hours, restless and alone, and wanted to check the time.

Setting aside the anthropology journal she'd been trying to read for the past half hour, she glanced at the clock again. She'd wound it just yesterday, and yet she was certain that more than ten minutes had passed since last she'd checked the time. The antiques dealer she'd purchased it from shortly before she'd left for Maluku had insisted it was a reliable timepiece in perfect working order, but perhaps its mechanism required cleaning. She would ask Cam to recommend a repair shop. Brennan didn't trust such things to businesses chosen at random from the yellow pages.

Decision made, Brennan set the problem aside and crossed to the window, but when she looked out she saw, not the familiar sights of her own neighborhood, but instead a waterfall, and a river, and a sun-drenched glade filled with butterflies. She closed her eyes, and when she opened them again she saw the same river and felt the touch of his hands on her shoulders as he told her that the important thing was where the river was going, not where it had been. A third blink, and the river appeared in moonlight, and she felt again the touch of his hands on her skin, only this time in much more intimate ways.

Abruptly, she spun away and strode to her bedroom. It was too early to meet him, but she couldn't seem to concentrate on her journal anyway so maybe she would take a shower. Catching a glimpse of herself in the hall mirror as she strode past, she paused and shook her head. She would wash her hair as well. It would give her a chance to try the shampoo Angela had brought from that salon in Paris. Apparently it was supposed to make her hair gorgeous, or something. Brennan didn't know, but maybe if she tried it Angela would stop asking about it, and since she had the extra time...

She used her favorite soap, washed her hair twice, shaved again, and ended by wrapping herself in a thick, fluffy towel. As she tucked the end between her breasts, she found herself thinking about Booth again. What would he think of the two new sarongs she had hanging in her closet? Would he prefer the emerald? Or the deep garnet threaded with gold ...? She'd never purchased clothing with a man's preferences in mind before, though Angela seemed to do so quite often. And on that last day in Maluku Booth had seemed quite interested in her wardrobe choices. Besides, she liked the idea that something she wore might please him.

After drying her hair and brushing it to a deep, rich shine, she took her time applying makeup, ending with a light application of lip gloss. That done, she crossed to the dresser for underwear, then over to the closet, hesitating only briefly before selecting a simple cotton skirt and blouse in a light, floral pattern. She finished with a pair of dangly earrings and a chunky necklace, then studied herself in the mirror. Despite the lingering shadows under her eyes and slight tension in her jaw she deemed herself acceptable.

She was still early, but it was a beautiful afternoon. If she arrived before Booth she would buy a cup of coffee and wait for him on their bench. After slipping a pair of sandals on her feet and fastening the thin straps at her ankles, she started to leave, then stopped and turned back to her dresser.

There was one more thing she needed.

As she locked her apartment door a few minutes later the thought occurred to her that maybe he'd be late, or not show at all, and she experienced an instant of blind panic. Then she discarded the idea as ridiculous. Booth wouldn't let her down. He would be there.

She only hoped he still wanted her.

********************

Booth approached the mall in an anxious haze. One minute he was convinced everything would be fine, and the next he imagined her not showing up, or worse, showing up on the arm of another man. The thought made his stomach knot, and he shoved it out of his mind. She wouldn't do that to him. Even if there were another man in her life, she would never, ever, bring him here. This was theirs. She knew that.

He strode the length of the reflecting pool, his eyes darting from one tourist to the next. Half a dozen times he thought he'd spotted her, only for the woman in question to turn out to be someone else entirely, someone too tall or too short, too fat, or too thin. Someone ... not Bones.

And then he saw her. She was sitting on their bench, her hands wrapped around a coffee cup that had to be much too warm for an afternoon like this one. Her head was turned the other way, and he imagined her searching the crowds for him as he had been doing for her. He stopped, waiting for her to see him. His heart pounded in his chest, and he thrust his hands into his pockets lest he be caught clenching and unclenching them at his sides.

When her eyes finally found his, everything else—the people, the sounds of passing traffic, even the faint smell of coffee—disappeared. He saw her smile and get to her feet, but his answering grin faded when she turned away. Had he lost her after all, then? Had she only come today to let him down gently? He swallowed hard and gathered his resources. If she'd chosen another path he would support her, no matter the cost.

He was contemplating his next move when he realized that she was only dropping her coffee cup in a nearby garbage can. She turned back, searching him out, and he forced himself to stand still and wait to see what she would do. Whatever it was, it had to be her choice, freely made. He'd been the one to follow her to the island. Now he needed her to come to him.

Maybe she understood that on some level, or maybe she was just coming to meet him because it was what they'd agreed upon all those months ago. It didn't matter, really. All that mattered was that a few seconds later she was standing in front of him, smiling. She had shadows under her eyes, which wasn't a surprise, and a worried furrow along her brow, which was. Had she doubted him? But when he met her gaze, all he felt was relief.

The Temperance Brennan he saw in her eyes was the one he'd left in Maluku, not the one he'd found there.

With a low groan, he folded her into his arms, ignoring the curious stares of passing tourists as he drew her body tight against his. She wrapped her arms around his back and relaxed into him, her head coming to rest against his shoulder as he buried his face in her hair. And for the first time since he'd been back, he felt like he was home.

The crowd eddied around them, and a light breeze tangled her skirt around his legs, but all he cared about was the fact that he was holding her in his arms again, and she showed no signs of wanting him to let her go.

"Sandalwood and vanilla," he murmured, when her grip on him finally eased. As greetings went it was a little unusual, but he thought he felt her smile against his chest.

"Do you prefer cinnamon and nutmeg?"

"No." He tilted her face up to his. "I prefer you."

Maluku had been a kind of fantasy world, just the two of them, away from everything and everyone else. This was different. It was home turf and work and friends and cold, hard reality. So he wouldn't have been surprised if she'd backed off.

He wouldn't have been surprised, but he would have been devastated.

But instead of backing off, she leaned in. Just before her lips met his she paused.

"I prefer you, too."

The kiss started out soft, a light, exploratory brush of her lips against his, but it escalated quickly as six months of separation—of wondering and worrying and hoping and dreaming—coalesced into this one moment and he knew they were going to be okay. He held her close, reacquainting himself with her taste, his arms tightening around her when she gave a low hum of approval at the first slide of his tongue along hers. He hadn't forgotten how good she was at this, but as his body responded to her nearness he realized that he'd greatly underestimated his reaction to the feel of her pressed against him.

Ending the kiss before it could get away from them, he rested his forehead against hers.

"I missed you," he said quietly.

Her smile was soft and a little misty. "I missed you, too." Drawing back, she lifted her arm and showed him the watch she wore on her wrist. "I told you I'd bring it back."

The look she gave him, part eager-to-please little girl, part sexually-confident woman, made his heart turn over in his chest.

"I never doubted you would," he said. Shifting his right hand from behind her back, he laced his fingers through hers. "Looks like you took good care of it, too."

"Of course I did."

She sounded surprised by his observation, as if she couldn't imagine why he might've expected anything else. And he hadn't. He'd known that the watch Pops had given him on his twelfth birthday was as safe in her hands as it was in his.

Reaching into his pocket with his free hand, he pulled out the little keychain and dangled it in the air between them, smiling faintly.

"I bet you thought I'd lose it," he said.

"No, I didn't think that at all. In fact—" She flashed him a look from beneath lowered lashes that made his blood rush to places that were decidedly inappropriate in the crowded mall. "I thought you might want to try it out."

The invitation caught him off guard, and he swallowed, wondering if he looked as flushed as he suddenly felt. "Now?"

"Of course." Her eyes flickered over him in a way that left no doubt as to her intentions. "Six months is a very long time to go without sex, Booth. Besides, there are some positions I'd like to try that require the use of a proper bed."

She was killing him here. Did she know that? Eyes narrowed, he considered her for a moment and realized that not only did she know exactly what she was doing, she was enjoying herself immensely at his expense. He found that he didn't mind, though. In fact, as far as he was concerned she could tease him all night if it meant she would keep looking at him like that.

She tilted her head. "Did you think I would change my mind about us?"

"I wasn't sure," he said honestly. He was having difficulty focusing on the conversation, too busy wondering exactly which positions she had in mind.

She stepped in close again, her fingers still tangled with his. "Pyramids are better at change than I am. Isn't that what you said?"

That pitch-perfect memory of hers was downright intimidating at times. "Yeah," he said. "That's exactly what I said."

She pressed her free hand flat against his chest. "But once they change—" She gave him a quick, impish smile. "They never change back."

It was all he could do not to show her then and there exactly what effect she was having on him. Hot didn't even begin to describe it.

"Right." He tugged her into his arms and lowered his head to give her a quick, hard kiss, holding her tightly enough that she couldn't possibly miss the evidence of his arousal. "What do you say we go try out that key?"

Stepping back, he laced his fingers through hers and pulled her toward the metro station. Her low, husky laugh followed them through the late afternoon sun, and as Booth slipped his arm around her waist and felt her head settle against his shoulder he remembered their last conversation by the coffee-cart, just over a year ago.

 _Nothing really has to change._

 _No. Things have to change. You know what? Hey, I taught you about eye contact; you taught me about evolution. So ... Here's to change._

  
 _... To change._


End file.
